A Sound Soul
by Frustration At Its Finest
Summary: Many people think of the body, mind, and soul as a single entity, but Soul is no longer one of them. When his body banishes his soul after a nightmare, he's left in an unfamiliar realm, scared and confused, awoken by a girl with green eyes and a soul full of fire. They must fight their worst nightmares to find a way back to to their bodies before they've nothing to return to. NC-17
1. Part 1

Note: I do not own Soul Eater, Bastion, the James Bond franchise, Loony Toons, Alice in Wonderland, Wizard of Oz, The Shining, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, or Scooby Doo. However, I do take credit for the premise of this fic as well as it's details. It was inspired by a poem I wrote at four a.m. after I had a strange dream about a year and a half ago. I've spent a few months working on this, and it means a lot to me, so any feedback is greatly appreciated. Also, I'd like to give a special thanks to Professor Maka, Ilarual, Twin-Lupus, and Marshofsleep, for all of the support and beta work they offered. This story would have been a mess without their help. (And a thank you to all my friends who have had to deal with my whining about getting this story done for the past few months.) OKAY, now for the warnings, and then I'll get on with it, I swear.

Rating- NC-17(or M, whatever)

Warnings- Vulgar language, violence, mild gore, psychologically distressing situations, emotional abuse(Medusa, enough said,) bigotry, implied death, death, drug mention, sexual harassment, and awful pop culture references.

Alrighty, enjoy!

* * *

><p>Sometimes it happens, and he panics, because during day he's the one in control of his body, of his thoughts and actions.<p>

But at night he's paralyzed by fear, assaulted with visions of things he cannot bear.

At night, he's only a child hiding from the monsters in his head. He can't laugh them away, and he can't turn the lights on to dispel the shadows; he can only wait silently for it to end, throat swollen shut and eyes opened wide.

Tomorrow he has a concert.

He needs to rest. It'll be a big day. Scouts will be there, his whole family will be there to listen to the piece he's been composing for the last four months.

He needs to have a peaceful night.

But of course, he doesn't.

His dreams are horrifying, filled with the disappointed faces of all those he loves most, filled with scoffing college scouts and discordant notes. He runs, _always runs_ from it all, but always ends up right back where he started, alone on the harsh stage, his only company the one, dark beast that betrayed him, the piano he adores and loathes so deeply.

His scream of frustration is drowned out by the laughter of bystanders, and he digs his nails into his palms hard enough to draw blood. His mother always told him that if he were to get caught in a nightmare, he need only pinch himself.

Well, his hands are shredded and his pride is crushed, and the laughter only grows louder the more he bleeds. All he can think is _failure failure I'm a fucking failure please get me out of here._

And this time, it actually stops.

He isn't on that stage anymore.

But he isn't in his bed, either.

He's staring up at the cloudless, inky night sky, surrounded by the scent of freshly cut grass and wet earth. He figures that maybe he ought to feel damp, but he doesn't really _feel_ anything at all. The only thing that seems to alert him to the breeze as it blows is the way the leaves flutter in the trees above him, rustling forlornly, struggling to cling to their home, but knowing that someday soon they will be swept away.

It makes him uncomfortable to think about it.

Now that he's really focused on those leaves though, he realizes that this perspective is all wrong for a reason he can't quite place. They seem too far away, like what he imagines salamanders would see when he and his brother would capture them in jars, their vision warped and twisted like carnival glass. He's certain the whole world must have looked like a dream to them back then. The little black ones always squirmed so much, like the sudden realization that things were out of their control shot electricity into their tiny, feeble little limbs. He would always free them with a sick feeling in his heart.

The idea that this is what they saw leaves him feeling unsettled and ashamed and _scared_ for reasons he can't even consciously grasp. For once, he truly wishes he were home.

An owl calls out into the metallic air, and though logically he remembers that it's still summer, he feels chilled to the core. He's had troubles with sleepwalking before, but this is the first time he's awoken in an unfamiliar place. If he were still a child, he might cry for the fear and injustice of it all.

But he isn't a kid anymore, and his parents aren't here to help him out of this mess. It's _his_ twisted mind that got him here, and therefore _his _responsibility.

That concert is going to be hell on earth.

He groans at the thought of it, wincing internally as the memories of the nightmare return to him abruptly, making his vision swim and his fingers tingle unpleasantly.

Maybe he should just lay here until it's all over, spare everyone the embarrassment and shame of it-

He stubbornly slams his eyes shut and tries to slow his breathing and heart rate enough to fall asleep, when a slightly agitated female voice interrupts,

"What are you doing?"

Well, he _**had **_been dozing, but now he's **having a fucking heart attack.**

"Holy shhhhhh-oot lady, don't you know it's rude to be a creep?!"

He remembers his manners at the strangest times...

His eyes snap open, and something intangible seems to be holding him down as he tries to scramble to his feet and away from the voice, so he just flails pathetically and tries to scoot away. The owner of the voice - now that he actually takes a good look - really strikes him as non-threatening, just curious and seemingly immensely amused by his struggles. Her wide green eyes are luminescent in the moonlight, skin nearly translucent and glowing. He hears the leaves rustle, but can't help but notice that not a single hair of hers seems out of place, hanging long and smooth over her strong shoulders. She's clad only in a black sports bra and shorts, feet bare and unsettlingly clean, her red toenail polish immaculately neat. He almost makes a snide comment about her appearance, but then he realizes he's only in his ridiculous boxers with the hearts all over them and nothing else, so he just remains silent, attempting once more to sit up, and failing, _yet again._

She giggles airily, and he huffs, flopping back down. She just scoffs at him and offers a hand, which he begrudgingly takes, and is jolted with a strange sort of warm, static-y feeling where her hand meets with his own. The moment he is sitting upright, she releases her grip on him, sputtering apologies at him for reasons he can't really comprehend, her face tinted a petal pink, and he's a little frustrated by the strange sense of loss that hits him with the absence of her touch.

She's weird.

She's like him.

After a few pregnant, awkward moments of silence, she speaks again.

"I'm Maka."

_Pretty name for a pretty girl, _he thinks.

Her pupils shrink and her eyes turn acidic, narrowing, as if she had heard his thought and did not appreciate it _at all._

Maybe she _had _heard it.

He swallows hard.

"Soul."

"Huh?"

"My name. That's my name, Soul."

The corner of her lips twitch and her eyes soften once more, and he lets out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding.

"Ironic, all things considered."

_Ironic? How's that..?_

She continues, paying no mind to the dumbfounded look he's sure he's currently sporting, "I like it. Nice to meet you Soul."

She says it so formally, as if they haven't just found each other half-naked in an unfamiliar forest after a jaunt with their broken minds.

Then again, maybe she had just gone for a late night jog?

With no shoes, or weapon, and her hair down…?

"How'd you get here? You ah... you sleepwalk too? I mean, I've had some shitty experiences, but this one is just too freaky. I usually wake up in my kitchen or something with like... raw cookie dough shoved in my face ..."

She looks at him for a moment, head cocked to the side, as if she were sizing him up, just mulling over his words, then promptly bursts into a fit of laughter.

She sounds like an echo of his nightmare, of the mockery, and it makes him _burn._

"Ahhhhhh ahahaha my god I'm sorry I just- are you new here? You must be new, that explains it! No wonder I haven't seen you around!"

She's still chuckling darkly, wiping away tears of mirth from her eyes, as if the fact that he is painfully lost is just the funniest fucking thing to _**ever**_ occur.

It pisses him off a little.

"What, is this fucking Neverland? Do I get to be inaugurated as a lost boy?! Stop laughing and tell me where the fuck I am!"

Her expression grows solemn, a small, sad smile gracing her infuriatingly pretty lips.

"You're in Limbo."

…..

_What?_

He stares at her, waiting for her to crack up again, to tell him he's just in the woods behind the school and he should stop being so serious, he'll get premature wrinkles to go with that stupid white hair of his!

She remains silent, averting her eyes and fidgeting under his expectant gaze.

The idea that she may be serious is absolutely absurd.

_Right?_

He can feel the panic bubbling up in his throat, stamps it down and starts talking a mile a minute, bordering on hysterical.

"You're real funny, shortstack, but I gotta get home, I got shit to do tomorrow, so if you could just point me in the right dir-"

She shakes her head vigorously, "I'm serious. Welcome to the in between, buddy. Enjoy your stay, however long it ends up being..."

…..

This _can't _be happening.

She's got one fucked up sense of humour, this one.

Maybe in any other situation he'd dig it, but not right now, not when he's scared and confused and lost in a fucking forest in his underwear.

"Fuck off."

"Well, you're gonna have to learn it sooner or later, just trying to be helpful."

"I'm… I'm fucking _dead_?"

She makes a face that scrunches up her nose, and he tries not to notice that it's kind of adorable. She makes it far easier for him when she snorts, "Oh man, I really hope not, I'm preeeetty sure necrophilia is **seriously **frowned upo-"

He's going to have a heart attack. If he's not already dead, which is _infuriatingly unclear at the moment._

"This isn't a joke, damnit! Did I die in my sleep?! That's so fucking lame oh my god I'm seventeen what seventeen year old dies in their sleep this is **such BULLSH-**"

She cuts him off abruptly, "Woahhhoho woah, slow down now, you're not dead! Well, not yet at least. This isn't _that _kinda limbo. This is a Limbo of consciousness, where all souls go when they become too weak for their bodies and are rejected by them."

Huh-wuh now? Rejected? So his body just decided his soul wasn't worthy anymore?

That's just fucking rude.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, it's weird, right? Mind, body, and soul are all different things, separate from each other, but things get a little twisted when one isn't in harmony with the others, and eventually everything just kinda falls apart, ya know? So, **in theory, **you _could _die if your body never accepts your soul again. But don't dwell on that too much! It doesn't help, trust me. Kiddo tells me that there's one guy who's been stuck here since like the twelfth century just because he was so offended that his body rejected him and he never went back. But I'm getting off topic. I haven't really been here long enough to know all the details, so maybe I should bring you to Kid. He's pretty much the expert on this kinda stuff, being the ruler of this realm and all."

It's all so ridiculously overwhelming, he almost wishes he were back in that nightmare. The only consolation is the fact that this lunatic is cute.

He can't process all the information she's given him at once, so he focuses on the simplest thing she told him and rolls with it.

"Your ruler is named Kid? The hell kinda name is that?"

Maka's face screws up in a sympathetic grimace, and he's a bit concerned about what he's done wrong when out of nowhere he hears a loud "BANG," feels something akin to being hit in the solar plexus with a wrecking ball, and falls flat on his back once more. He hears Maka fretting over him, poking at his chest and tugging at his arms as he tries not to vomit out his apparently non-existent spleen, and in the near distance he can hear a high pitched voice giggling madly.

When the ringing in his ears finally ceases, and Maka stops poking at him, and the giggling dies down, he hears the voice that had been giggling say happily,

"Don't go talking shit about our Kiddo, newbie! We'll _**fuck you up!"**_

Excellent.

Amazing.

He's in dream purgatory for five fucking minutes and he's already made an enemy of an insane five year old, who apparently has super strength and a horrendous potty mouth.

Maka huffs, slightly amused, "Patti, he's new, don't be so hard on him."

"Awwwwww, c'mon Maka, I'm just messin with him! 'Sides, I need the target practice, and your buddy here's hard to miss."

A short haired blonde with the face of a doll and the body of a Victoria's Secret model suddenly has her knees lodged under his ribcage, hands smacked on his cheeks and nose almost touching his. It feels like she's made of lead, and he coughs and splutters while she pulls at his face and lips, inspecting his demonic teeth in a way that makes him feel extremely uncomfortable and more than slightly violated. She studies him curiously for a moment while he's struck dumb, then snaps her fingers, the almost visibly tangible 'ah-ha!' lightbulb flickering on above her head. He sort of flails his arms around a bit, trying to silently beg Maka to _get this loony toon out of his face._

Maka just grins.

The one with the weight of a sumo wrestler kneeling on his chest points a finger gun at his forehead, and he's actually legitimately worried for his wellbeing.

Even more so than before, when he figured out that his body had essentially told his soul to fuck off.

"Youuuuuuu look like a boy from a game me and sissy used to play! Well, we didn't _actually _play it... but we've seen people play it, and it looks totally awesome! I betcha Kiddo has some Soul Objects around here, all we really need is a red hankie and a bigass hammer!"

And just as quickly as she had arrived, she's gone, shouting for her 'Kiddo' and giggling madly. Soul is left dazed, chest sore and phantom lungs wheezing slightly. When his vision focuses, he decides that maybe taking a moment to survey his surroundings for the first time since he's awoken might be a wise thing to do.

He gets to his feet once more, noting that even though he's been shoved to the dirt, none of the filth actually clings to him, a small consolation in this clusterfuck of a situation. Apparently only souls can touch one another; the elements seem irrelevant.

At least he knows he won't get soaked in the storm he can smell coming.

He takes a deep breath, reveling in the glorious fact that he can still _smell,_ at the very least (though that's a rather strange thing that he makes a note to question Maka about later).

That little concern is promptly shoved away by a far larger one.

What he had thought to be a dense forest of trees surrounding him is actually made up of giant blades of grass; clover, dandelion, and mushrooms interspersed with stray crabgrass and other things he can't identify. He approaches a single blade and is struck dumb with the realization that it's twice his height. He reaches out, but his hand passes through it completely, distorting and warping like an image on a television with poor reception, and though he understands that he cannot _touch _material objects, he can _feel _the way it disrupts something within him, like part of him is erased from existence momentarily.

It's terrifying, but interesting.

He wonders what would happen if he were attempt to walk through it entirely.

"Weird, huh? Things like that seem to throw off our wavelength, though I'm not sure why. I think that the more connected to this place you are, the more tangible you become. Like Kid and everyone back at the house. We should go talk to Kid, actually, he'll be able to explain better than me, 'cause I'm pretty new here too."

She offers him a hand, looking only mildly uncomfortable at the prospect of it. He takes it; she's a grounding presence, something more solid and real, which he very much needs now. That warm static spreads its way up his arm and into his chest, but it's pleasant and calming, like that familiar hum of vibrant colours can be felt, even with closed eyes. It jolts through him with more intensity the more he thinks of it, and when he looks at Maka, her lips are curved upwards slightly, eyes shining in stark contrast to the nightscape around them.

She _must _be a mind reader.

She tugs him along behind her like an enthusiastic child, and he lets her; he likes the way she glows when she's like this. It bothers him a bit that he's already getting kind of attached to this weirdo, but in all fairness, she's shown him kindness and truth in this realm that his body banished him to, and how could he not try his best to hold onto that? It's something he's never been gifted with from anyone but his brother, and it's reassuring.

He likes it.

Stumbling behind her silently is a bit lame though, so he tries to think of something to ask her, something important. He's certainly got a lot of questions about this place, and she seems willing to help and admit when she doesn't have all the answers. He should ask her something deep. Something about how she got here?

"So uh, where you from?"

_Nailed it._

She doesn't miss a beat.

"Death City. Place is a dustbowl, but it's home."

The warm static that had filled his chest spreads down to his toes, and he thinks that maybe this is what elation feels like. He tries not to make it apparent how pleased he is to know that even in the real world, she's still somewhere closeby. The fingers that aren't curled around hers pluck at a loose thread unraveling at the hemline of his boxers.

"Same here. You go to the DC high?" he asks, heart in his throat. "Never seen you around."

A little shock of chill runs through him from where their hands are linked. He bites back a surprised little yelp. She doesn't mention it.

"My father pays for me to go to the private school."

He waits for her to continue, but she doesn't, and when he looks at her, her eyes are cold, lips thin and reluctant. He doesn't ask her anything else as they walk.

Though he does kind of regret refusing to attend said private school all those years ago, even at his parents' insistence that he should.

He can feel a sort of shift in the atmosphere that tells him they're almost to their destination, the air humming with the presence of more forgotten souls. He hears soft murmuring all around them, and when he looks, he sees far more souls than he had hoped to see. Children roughhouse with each other, disguising it as a game, but he can see it in their eyes. They're angry.

Angry that they cannot touch their world, and angry that their parents, the ones who were meant to protect them at all costs, but are nowhere to be found. Mommy and daddy let the monsters take their children, and recruit them. Those souls have a strange, dark aura that curls around them possessively, and Soul feels bitter disappointment rise in the back of his throat.

They probably could have grown up to be good people.

He can't help but feel the strange sort of finality of it all while he watches the way those young, rage filled souls torment each other. He hopes they can find their way home, but it seems unlikely.

That warmth that had spread to his toes begins to freeze over so fast it gives him what feels like vertigo and frostbite all wrapped in one, and Maka gives him a disapproving look. He doesn't know what he's done to piss her off, but he'd really like to fix it, cause he feels pretty off-kilter and cold. He thinks if his lungs existed for real here, he might be able to see his breath. Is she thinking about what they spoke about before? Maybe her dad is a prick and she's mad Soul brought him up indirectly?

She gives his arm a tug.

"Stop thinking so hard. I'm mad because you've already given up."

"Jeeeezuz woman, how do you _do _that?! Get out of my head. It's fucking weird."

He sees her lip quirk upward slightly. "Chill out, Frosty. It's not like I'm _trying _to do it, it just- happens. Though usually it takes way longer for me to get to know someone enough to be able to read them."

The static thaws, and he smirks at her, a bit smug, but far more bashful. His toes tingle, and she looks away abruptly, flustered but warm all the same. She's so tangible, so real, he can almost forget where they are and what has happened to them when he's around her.

Almost.

* * *

><p>They walk a long while in silence, taking in the moonlight bathed dreamscape, learning of the home of the lost. It hurts Soul to pay too much attention to those who have been condemned to this strange place, so he tries to focus on the feeling that holding onto this strange, wonderful soul brings him.<p>

It seems that hours pass before they are greeted, but eventually a long haired woman in a paisley bra and a pair of bellbottoms interrupts their journey.

Her name is Liz, Maka tells him.

All she says is, "Hey newbie, don't say jack about Kiddo's hair okay? It's a real sensitive thing."

His _hair_?

They've all been abandoned by their bodies, and the so-called all-knowing 'Kiddo' is concerned about his fucking _hair_?

This is hilarious.

And _so _disconcerting.

Soul looks to Maka for confirmation that this absurdity is actually true, and she just nods, eyes serious and lips tight. He can't help but admire the irony of the situation. He bets that they aren't even visible to human bodies, if even in the same realm as them, but to be honest, the idea that one of these poor lost souls still gives a damn about something as superficial as their hair...

Well. It's actually kind of reassuring, now that he thinks about it. Superficiality is the only way he can recognize humanity. At least he knows he isn't dead this way.

When they arrive at their destination, Maka grips his hand tighter and smiles surreptitiously, like she's letting him in on a secret that is so wonderful, so gloriously perfect that he simply _must _do it justice. It's a lot of pressure, but he doesn't mind much.

Not yet at least.

They stand at the base of a hollowed, gigantic, aggressive-looking tree, its branches angular and bark unnaturally gnarled. They wait for a good long while before he can sense any movement. When he does, though, he knows that the girl made of lead is around, and he nearly crushes the spirit manifestation of Maka's hand in his nervous grip until she squeezes his back. Maybe it's for the sake of reassurance, or maybe it is a semi-subtle way to tell him to _chill the fuck out_, but either way, he does appreciate it.

Sort of.

A voice rings out, somewhat regal sounding and a tad self important.

"Greetings. I hear from Liz and Patti that you're a new arrival."

Oh good god, they weren't joking.

That was one _fucked up _dye job.

Maka sends a spike of icy distortion through him as a not so subtle warning to _keep his damn mouth shut._

But he just _can't_.

He nudges Maka with his shoulder and whispers, "Is he for fuckin' real? Looks like he pissed off a family of paint rollers…"

She crushes his hand and he can just barely bite back a grunt of pain. She hisses, "Shut _up,_ he's the only one who knows enough about this place. We don't have a chance without his help, so _can it."_

He snorts, but complies. This place is beautiful, but the air hums with melancholy and madness, and it feels uncomfortably familiar. He doesn't even need to breathe, but he feels like he's being suffocated.

He wants out as soon as possible.

So he shuts his mouth and opens his ears. He _almost _does a little bow, but Maka thankfully stops him before he can make a giant ass of himself. Still, Kid smirks knowingly. It borders on condescending_, _and Soul might think to be offended, but it's _impossible _to take this dude all that seriously. He's in black parachute pants and a white vest, a golden "8" hanging around his neck. It's like a bad Halloween costume and it's _hilarious._

"I presume you are here for orientation?"

"What is this, high school?" Soul scoffs.

Maka stomps on one of his feet, and this time he does let out a grunt. Fat-ankled little twerp…

"My ankles are perfect the way they are, you jerk."

"For fuck's sake, get out of my heaaad, it's not cool to invade people's private thoughts, dweeb."

"Well think a little quieter next time and we won't have this problem," she snarks, and he can see the hint of a satisfied smirk pulling at her lips, the jerk. He's about to retort (with something witty, totally) when Kid interrupts.

"Wait."

He and Maka halt their bickering and look to Kid, who seems both delighted and quite intrigued by their little spat, which irritates Soul to no end.

Until he speaks once more, that is. "Oh, now I see why Maka brought you to me."

Now Soul is just fucking confused. He really wishes this asshole wasn't so vague, it would save a lot of time. Which apparently is important, if ever he wants to get out of here.

Kid just smiles politely.

"We'll get to that. In the meantime, welcome to our home. We sincerely hope you won't have to stay too long. It seems that Maka here may be in need of your assistance. You're aware of where you are and how you got here I take it?"

Soul sulks just a little, far too used to the vaguely patronizing tone that rings in Kid's voice.

"Yeah, nerdlord over here filled me in on that much at least. Other than that though, I don't know shit. Care to enlighten me?"

"Well, there is a way to escape from here. Though it's rarely ever accomplished alone. A soul's strength can be less without a companion in certain cases. This is where you come in. You and your 'nerdlord' seem to have the Bond."

Maka grins, whispering to herself excitedly "I knew it!" and the static goes _wild._ It's a strange feeling, wriggling in his phantom veins and buzzing in his chest. The foreign feeling in his heart area and all the cryptic talk of a so-called 'Bond' leaves even more confused than he had been a moment ago. Sarcasm is always the best way to deal with discomfort and fear of the unknown, right?

"The wha now? Maka, you didn't tell me you know Daniel Craig, I'm hurt! Are you holding out on me?"

She glares at him, unamused.

"Not _that _Bond, idiot. A bond between our souls! That's our ticket out of here!"

Now the static almost burns with fervor, and he wants to run, run far away from her and this place, but the hopeful look in her bright eyes traps him where he stands.

It's their way out.

He turns away from her searing gaze, tightens his grip on her hand, and looks at Kid, steeling himself for what he is positive will be one hell of an experience.

"So, how does this work?"

Kid smiles at them.

"You already feel it, I am sure. There's an energy exchange between you. It's an extremely rare thing to be able to accomplish. Liz and Patti's familial bond and history make them more compatible with each other, and my longstanding friendship with both of them establishes a bond between the three of us. We knew each other in the waking world though, which makes creating a Bond more feasible. You two just met?"

Soul's voice is caught in his throat, thinking of the implications of such a connection. No wonder she's always reading his mind.

It's terrifying.

Maka speaks up when Soul does not.

"I found him out near the Death Room and brought him to you."

_The Death Room? But she said they weren't dead..._

She smirks and whispers, "Well, we aren't _yet._"

Good God, he is so royally fucked.

"I'll explain later," she mutters.

Wonderful. He can't wait to hear how else the world has decided to fuck him over. Tickled pink over this whole situation, really.

Kid interrupts them, clearing his throat obnoxiously several times until both Soul and Maka are looking at him again. "If I may continue?"

What a pretentious asshole_._

Soul just bites his tongue and nods.

"Excellent. My point is - the Bond that you two have is practically an anomaly. The fact that you can even tolerate standing so close, let alone touching, is incredible. Most use their Soul Wavelength to cause harm. You both seem to have found a harmony."

It all sounds very musical and romantic to Soul, and it makes him more than a little uncomfortable. He met this chick hardly an hour ago, he didn't sign up for this Bond shit. Sure he likes her well enough, but letting a stranger into his mind feels so _raw_, so intimate. He just wanted a solid night of sleep before his concert. Was that really so much to ask?

Maka sends him a little apologetic look and the static warms. Goddamnit, this girl was going to get him tangled up in so much shit. He wishes he were actually mad.

Liz and Patti each grab one of Kid's hands and grin, proud of the Bond they've forged between them. Soul sees the mutual respect and affection that they all have for each other, and a pang of jealousy strikes him hard, catching him off guard. He finds himself thinking that maybe having a connection like that with another soul would do him some good. The absolute disconnect he has with the outside world has caused him nothing but grief thus far in this short life he's lead.

Maka whispers, "Trust me."

And he thinks that maybe… maybe he should.

* * *

><p>They all sit together for a while on the forest floor, and Kid tells them about something called Resonance - a bond so deep that it amplifies the souls of both those involved, practically merging them as one while multiplying their strength drastically. It sounds invasive to Soul; Resonance can only occur if you are willing to bare yourself entirely to the other person involved. All fears are known - and all desires. Every nightmare is shown in garish high definition, dripping and drooling and awful and <em>embarrassing. <em>He doesn't even tell his brother about those things, let alone some girl he just met.

And yet…

Maka explains to him what Kid had already explained to her. If a weaker soul (which in this case, would be people like himself and Maka) wishes to find their body once more, they first have to face some of their worst nightmares. In all honesty, it sounds like a low-budget video game plot to him. Some big, lame metaphor about overcoming obstacles in life. Fight the monster, win the battle, emerge the hero. Rinse and repeat for best results.

Except here he has to battle with his subconscious, which is far more terrifying than anything he knows of the waking world.

Ironic, especially when his penchant for sleeping to avoid his problems is taken into consideration.

"There is a way to find temporary hosts to inhabit, though inanimate Soul Objects are best to possess," Kid explains. "We call those golems. As a rule, we do not possess sentient beings. It never ends well for any parties involved."

His yellow eyes grow dull for a split second, and Soul thinks he might catch a glimpse of something akin to _vulnerability? _But before he can be sure, Kid blinks it away, clears his throat and adjusts his vest, apologising quietly and continuing his explanation.

"Soul Objects can only be created when a soul bonds with the object in question. For some it can be easier than others. Once you've become entirely intertwined with this realm it becomes somewhat irrelevant, but with any luck, you two won't need to know much about that." It doesn't make much sense to Soul, but Maka nods agreeably, so he just follows her lead and makes a note to ask her more about it later. There's a long lull in the conversation, and it seems like perhaps their lesson is done for the night, but then out of the blue, Kid sighs dramatically.

"Go ahead, just ask."

Ask? Ask what? He has too many questions to even keep track of, but at the moment his mind is pretty close to blank.

Patti just giggles.

"Youuuuuu wanna know about Kiddo's funny hair, dontcha?!"

Soul chokes on nothing and splutters. He _had_ gotten used to it well enough, but now that Patti's brought it up again, he's curious.

Kid just grimaces.

"Oh yes, this was Patricia's doing. That was the last party we went to. Some **ignoramus **dosed the punch with LSD and _my dear friend _over here decided that my hair was the perfect canvas for her trip induced art project. How regrettable." He turns to Patti', a look of betrayal in his eyes. "And you didn't even bother to _complete _the job, you just left it an uneven atrocity!"

Liz sighs like she's heard this complaint 8000 times already, and Soul glances nervously over at Maka. She pats his hand, getting the message loud and clear. She interrupts Patti and Kid's bantering (which is a lot more like Kid wailing about permanent imperfection and Patti cackling madly at his despair than legitimate banter). Maka clears her throat and says, "I think it's time for us to rest. Soul's had a long night, and we both need to get a game plan set sooo, um. Thank you guys, for all for your help. See ya."

Soul just nods silently to the others, almost holding his hand out to offer handshakes, but remembers what was said about people using their Wavelengths as weapons and thinks better of it. His stomach sinks uncomfortably when he remembers the children he saw roughhousing earlier.

She drags him away from them all without another word, the hum of her Wavelength pleasantly thrumming through him and offering him silent reassurance. Wherever she leads, he is willing follow. He thinks he wouldn't mind if she even brought them to their mutual destruction.

At least they wouldn't be alone in their ruin.

The realization scares him.

She leads him to a mossy clearing, near a little stream, its surface an icy black. He can see his reflection clearly; the way the image ripples is hypnotic and eerily familiar.

His throat feels dry, constricted.

Are souls capable of getting thirsty? Is it even a possibility?

God, If he could just have a taste, just one tiny sip would be enough-

"I've got a place for you to sleep over here," Maka says, the sound of her voice snapping him out of his trance. When his eyes focus on her, he realizes she's directing him to a comfortable looking indentation in the moss. It's perfect.

But he's a bit disconcerted by the fact that it's only large enough for one.

"Wait, where are you gonna sleep? Do we even need to sleep? Shouldn't we stick together?"

She waves her hands in mock surrender, scoffing at his concern, and then walks back to him and shoves his chest with a warm palm. The gesture is charged with quiet affection that makes his skin buzz pleasantly. He clings to the warmth of her soul long after she is no longer touching him. The mere memory of it is strong enough to keep him cemented where he stands.

She speaks, amused and slightly worried, "I'm sleeping on a leaf a little ways down from here, so chill. You and I will be fine. We don't exactly _need _sleep… but, well - think of it like this. Our bodies become irrelevant, but our souls remember. They remember our appearances and habits. Maybe we don't _need _sleep, but we function much better with it than without. Does that answer your question?"

He's quiet for a moment. Then nods.

"Will you stay close?"

Maka looks confused, if only for a moment, but gathers her wits quickly, clearing her throat in a way that's almost theatrical.

"Ahem. Yeah, I'll stay close. You don't need to worry." She offers him a small smile.

Then he asks her, "Do we still dream here?"

Grimace.

"Unfortunately."

It feels like he took a phantom step at the top of the staircase and left his stomach to tumble back down to the bottom. He had really been hoping for some peace…

"Is not sleeping an option?" She walks towards him and he stumbles backwards; the empathy in her eyes is unfamiliar and frightening and wonderful all at once. He feels like a coward, but that's nothing new.

She frowns.

"You can try, but I wouldn't advise it. Like I said, we do much better with than without. It's up to you, but considering how we're connected now… Well. I'd prefer that you got some rest. It would help both of us."

He reluctantly agrees.

He feels like an absolutely lost little idiot, but…

"Don't go too far, alright? I don't feel like having to search all over for you when I wake up."

She nods, lips tight and eyes curiously guarded. The shift in her composure makes him squirm.

"I'm not going anywhere. Sleep well, Soul."

Maybe since she told him to, he actually will.

"You too Maka."

* * *

><p><em>He feels something tugging at his limbs, like taut little stitches that are being tied too tight. He is not in control, he's just a puppet, the spider queen pulling his strings and making him dance.<em>

_He's always hated dancing. His old ballroom instructor from when he was six used to flick his elbows so hard if he let his posture drop. Now letting his posture slip isn't even an option._

_He can feel the vibrations of his composition thrumming through the strings attached to him, like he's been tied to the heart of this wicked instrument that the queen created, a prison meant only for him, and the notes warble and shake his bones in the most unsettling ways._

_He feels sick._

_He pulls against the strings and a seam in his chest opens up, thousands of tiny red and black spiders crawling out and swallowing him up in blood and obsidian ink, whispering directions and reassurances in his ears, their tinny voices telling him not to worry. All he has to do is_ _**as he is told.**_

_He does not scream._

_He feels so helpless._

_He feels so at home._

* * *

><p>"We need to talk."<p>

Well shit, that's never a good thing to hear from a girl.

"Oh calm down. We just need to figure out what our next move is."

He'd prefer to not move at all for a while, but whatever.

"Alright then nerdlord, tell me what your plan is, cause I haven't got shit."

She huffs irritably, but takes a large breath to prepare for what he assumes will be a big ass expositional speech that he won't understand a goddamn word of, and she'll have to break it down and write it in crayon for him. Or on a musical staff, whichever she prefers.

His assumption ends up being correct.

"So, my understanding of this whole thing is that we have to actively focus on a fear or nightmare of ours to conjure it up. Some people here have made the conscious decision to never face their fears, and so they just end up staying here for well… forever, I guess? I only have a vague understanding of how things work. I know Kid, Liz and Patti are all from like 1968, and they all decided to stay here instead of going back. I have an idea of why, since I can read people's souls fairly well, but they all seem to have a wall up around them… I'm sorry, that's off topic. I just…" her brow furrows, perplexed and melancholy, but she quickly rights herself. "Nevermind. The point is, if we don't make the conscious decision to face our nightmares, they may never show up here, but we'll never get back to our bodies. Our families will just think we're in some sort of coma. At some point our bodies will just give up on us. Then we won't have anything to go back to."

He feels cold in the blaring sunlight.

He reluctantly asks,"So, how are we supposed to defeat our nightmares?"

She shrugs, sheepish,"Your guess is as good as mine. I know time is warped here. Days can go by and it could only be an hour in the waking world, but if we avoid our fears for too long, eventually it'll just become a pattern, and we won't ever get back to our bodies. So I guess we should ah - start simple? I don't really understand how to _defeat _them though. That bit is a little fuzzy for me. I think that if we just try to fight them with our souls alone, nothing will happen. Or on the other hand we could be seriously harmed - I mean, they are creations of our own minds, right? Nothing can harm us the way we ourselves can."

The truth in her words shines in her haunted gaze, staring right through him before focusing on him again. Her eyes seem to strip him of his pretenses so easily, but she has the good grace not to mention what she sees beneath.

She continues, looking into his eyes as she speaks, "Anyway, Kid mentioned possessing a golem, those Soul Objects that can act as temporary bodies for us? Maybe we should work on figuring that out first. I mean, we can try to find one, but I think we can create them ourselves with enough energy too. I'm just not sure exactly… how."

Soul rubs at the back of his neck and pinches the bridge of his nose, wracking his brain for any sort of idea as to what they could use as a body to fight against their worst fears. He thinks back to the rare occasions he and Wes had been allowed into the sandbox to play with G.I. Joes and get dirt caked in their pristine nail-beds. He smiles at the thought.

"Got any abandoned toys around here?"

She looks thoughtful for a moment, then grins widely. She grabs him by the hand, pulls him to his feet (which he stumbles over dumbly), and tugs him back over by the stream. It looks so much clearer in the daytime…

"There was this reaping scythe somewhere around here. Maybe a farmer left it behind years ago? I couldn't move it myself, but maybe if we both use our soul wavelengths to possess it, we can use it as a weapon in battle!"

He stares at her incredulously.

"How the fuck are we supposed to fit both our souls into one golem? Wouldn't that cause a lot of issues?

"Resonance, idiot. And beyond that, only _one_ of us would have to possess the golem, while the other would wield it, but it'd be good practice to possess one while in resonance first, just so we can help each other get the hang of it. Jeeze, didn't you listen to a word Kid said?"

"Honestly, I was just imagining him as Pepe le Pew hitting on my cat. I felt bad for poor Dina. She deserves better than _that._"

He's expecting her to scold him or shove him or something, but she just bursts into a fit of laughter, the sound of it musical and wrapping around him protectively. It makes him proud to be the one who brought something so beautiful out of her. He bites his lip to keep from laughing along with her; it's not cool to laugh at your own jokes.

"Y-you named your cat after the cat in Alice in Wonderland? Oh my god, the _irony. _And I dare you to call Kid that to his face!"

She pokes his ribs where he's ticklish, and then they're both laughing, _giggling_ if he's honest, and it's so peaceful.

Then he feels this intense sensation of _melting, warping,_ and his fingertips on her waist sink into her skin, her hands twisting their way into his chest, and they're not laughing anymore, they're screaming, panicking, trying so hard to disengage from each other, but they _can't._

But… it reminds him of something. Something comfortable, nostalgic.

It reminds him of how he used to make those rainbow crayons as a child, watching them melt together in the shiny aluminum cupcake tins on the black asphalt. They'd form something far better than all the separate pieces before. He got scolded for breaking all of his crayons, but the end result was always worth the trouble.

With that thought, he stops panicking, and just lets himself meld with her, telling her that it's okay, everything is okay, because _it is_. It _feels _like it's okay…

It feels _right._

Then he's flooded with insecurities that are not his own, a default mistrust of all people of his disposition, an intense fear of being abandoned-

And the wish for him to stay by her side.

Her voice sounds metallic and dumbstruck.

"I-I think this is Resonance."

He feels whole. The moment he thinks to do something, she moves for them both, he the thought and she the action. There is no time lapse, no disconnect. They are two who have become one.

He's embarrassed by the intimacy, surprised that she hasn't pulled away even after seeing into his mind so deeply, so incredibly _hopeful _that she won't ever want to pull away, because being one with her is the most comfortable he can ever remember being in his life. He's forgotten the stiff fabric of his performance suit, his too tight tie and too shined shoes. He's forgotten the ache in his knuckles that seemingly never leaves him be, and the pain in his spine from that awful practiced posture. He forgets the way his teeth feel demonic and dangerous in his mouth, forgets the constant disappointment of his family, instructors, peers, as he plays from his soul and is rejected. He just met this girl yesterday, and now their souls are one, and she's accepted him. She isn't family, she has no obligation to tolerate his sullenness and lurking insecurity and insanity and not so low-key self-hatred.

Her soul embraces his, and he realizes what a real home is.

He accepts her fully.

And yet…

He feels her overwhelming fear, her disbelief and confusion, feels her trying to disengage from the way they are joined, so he tries hard to calm himself, silently let her know that he's here for her, to help her, no matter what that means, because they need each other to get back. They are partners now.

He will not run away.

He feels her shuddery breath in his own chest, an attempt at calm.

"Okay… l-let's try t-to uh, find that scythe?"

It's the most she's ever fumbled over her words in front of him. She sounds so unsure, so he musters up all the courage he has and begins to walk, her limbs his and his limbs hers. After being so disconnected from others for so long, becoming one with her is incredibly validating. Maybe he's not as broken as he had thought.

"No, you're a little broken, but so are the rest of us. It's okay."

He kicks at the dirt childishly, but it misplaces nothing, not even a scuff mark left behind. It only frustrates him more. Not to mention the scarlet polish covering their toes, courtesy of Maka. How scandalous.

He huffs, "Why is it that you can pick my brain and find such specific shit but I can only get vague emotions from you? How the hell is that fair?"

"Well… I've always been very perceptive. I think that our bond amplifies existing skills. How do you communicate best with others?"

His looming concert comes to mind unbidden, and he can _feel _her grasp at the thought.

"Ohhhh, maybe then you have to think of it in terms of music, rather than words. I've always loved books, read hundreds, used to read the dictionary for fun," she admits sheepishly. "Maybe that's why it's easier for me to pick _words_ out of your head."

It's all so abstract and impossible, but for some reason she can verbalize it in a way that truly makes sense to him.

In the key of G, he faintly hears a few fluttering notes, a bright melody laced with minor undertones, and he's hopeful.

A dangerous thing indeed, but he's just too selfish to give it up. Such is the nature of these things.


	2. Part 2

Note: As always, I own nothing but my own thoughts and ideas. I'll keep this note short since the first chapter's notes said all they needed to say. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>They search along the creek for what seems like hours, the sky fading back into the oranges and pinks that come with end of day, finding no such scythe, but Maka comes up with an idea that both disgusts and intrigues him.<p>

"Mud."

"Huh?"

"Didn't you ever make mud pies and sculptures when you were little?"

He was lucky he had even been allowed in the sandbox, honestly. But he just nods, unwilling to elaborate on his stunted childhood. She accepts his silent answer, seemingly too excited to catch the wave of discomfort within him. He's thankful for it.

"If our strength together is enough, we may be able to sculpt a golem out of it. Just a temporary fix, but it could work! If only for the purpose of practic-"

He interrupts and he can feel their face draw into a bitter scowl that does not belong solely to him for once, but she allows him to continue.

"Dreams aren't even tangible though, so I really don't understand why we need bodies to fight these fuckers off."

She cocks their left eyebrow, "Well I personally don't know how to spiritually fight off a pit of venomous snakes, so if you figure _that _out, feel free to let me know, but otherwise just fucking work with me, _please._ This is a dream realm and you're trying to think logically. Cut it out."

He scoffs, indignant, but deep down he knows that she's right. Nothing really makes very much sense around here. At least if he had fallen down the rabbit hole, he would have known what to expect. This place is a whole new experience for him, and he admits to himself that it's actually quite frightening. Thus far they haven't run into anything all too abnormal, but he gets the feeling that will change far sooner than he'd like.

She skids them both to a stop, their motions intertwined soul-deep, her sudden excitement causing their fingers to twitch impatiently. She runs one of their hands through their hair, and when Soul looks at what is tugged out, he sees long silver and golden strands clinging to blunt fingernails, hands covered in scars; some he recognizes and some he does not. The callouses on the fingertips are his, but the callouses on the palms must be hers.

He runs their tongue across their teeth, and she gasps at the sharp edges, which he can't help but laugh at. He can't imagine what they look like now, joined together this way, but it must be quite the sight. The dismayed little minor key melody that twists through her mind only makes it more amusing.

"Shut up, I just need time to get used to it is all, sheesh…"

His chuckles vibrate in her chest almost musically.

"If you bite my tongue I'm never gonna let you live it down."

"Technically I'd be biting _our _tongue, so don't get too full of yourself there champ."

He's only a little disconcerted by how much he likes it when she says things like 'our' and 'us' and 'we'.

She drags him from his thoughts by pointing their finger upward into the trees, leaves shimmering iridescent like the wings of dragonflies. The bark weeps deep indigo sap, and for the first time since he's gotten here, he can truly see why some souls just never leave. All wound up in the branches are glowing blue and purple orbs. It reminds him of the colourful Christmases he never had, but used to see in those movies about tight knit families in little cottage homes, with their instant Ovaltine and warm looking hugs. They would hang all their lovely ornaments with such care. He doesn't remember the last time he decorated his own tree. Maybe he never did.

She sends a wave of warmth and apology through him, whispers,

"Beautiful, aren't they? Such a shame."

"What's a shame?"

"These are the souls of those who gave up. They had no bodies to return to, but had no wish to stay here. There's a special group of souls who help escort them to these kinds of trees to give them some semblance of peace. It's not perfect, but it's better than the alternative. If I never got back to my body… well, I think that's what I'd want to do. Bring people peace. And rid this realm of the corrupted souls who torment the rest."

He feels her passion burn through them, and he's a little proud of her, but he's also confused.

"Corrupted souls..?"

"Tirelessly trying to defeat your own worst fears and never succeeding has to get to you at some point, right? Some latch onto the nightmares of others and work _with_ them. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em kind of mentality, I think. Anger and frustration does funny things to people after a prolonged period of time."

He snorts humorlessly, "Don't I know it…"

They stand in silence as the pink sky melts to purple, then blues and blacks and speckles of stars, staring at the tree of souls laid to rest. They're all so beautiful this way. He wonders what sort of people they had once been. He wonders how their families mourned, or if they had families at all. What of the parents that left children behind? Or the children who awaited their parents' rescue for so long, held out hope for so long, but finally gave in to their new reality?

Suddenly he feels cold.

"Parents leave their children every day of their own volition. No reason to dwell on it."

Minor chords crash so violently that it makes his head spin. He risks,"Are you okay?"

"Just dandy."

He'd like to say she's full of shit, but judging by the ominous string of notes he hears in her side of the Bond, she's already caught on to the thought, and it would be in his best interest to keep his damn mouth shut.

But he's struck with an odd thought.

"Hey, you said you were pretty new here, right?"

"Yeah."

"So how do you know all this shit about the lost souls and the corrupted ones and all that jazz?"

He feels their shared face heat up, souls intent on remembering the body's reaction to embarrassment, and he internally grins. It must be something nerdy, but he can't really talk, he the one who just used the phrase 'all that jazz' unironically in a sentence.

"Kid lent me a book, one of his enchanted Soul Objects that he had Liz fill out with some things about the realm. I never got to finish it but… I think it'll help. I hope it will."

Soul grins, baring their sharp teeth.

"You're a loser, but at least you're a smart one."

"Thanks, jerk. I think - Ohhhhkay we should really at least attempt to make ourselves a golem body… thing. We wasted a whole day looking for that damned scythed. You ready to try?"

_No._

"Wait, how the fuck do we even do this? We can't even touch things that aren't Soul Objects, how are we supposed to make a _body_?"

"Our joined souls should be strong enough to enchant the soil, especially considering how malleable the material is. Or maybe it'll be more like a suit? I don't really know how to explain it. Trial and error. It's the best I've got." She sounds a little sheepish and disappointed in herself. He knows the feeling, knows just how much the feeling of helplessness and inadequacy can eat away at someone.

"Hey, it's better than anything I could come up with. I'll try whatever you think may work," he tells her.

Their face heats again, and he tries not to feel too smug.

"O-okay. So um. I think we just both have to focus on the same objective. If we both visualize what we want to happen, maybe things will just fall into place?"

He almost rolls their eyes, but refrains, because they're in a goddamn dream realm without their bodies and she's right, logic has long since been thrown to the wind.

"Alright," he cracks their knuckles, and they both let out a satisfied sigh that sends a strange little shiver through their Bond that is not at all unpleasant. The fine white and gold hairs stand on the back of their neck. He tries so hard to ignore it, but knows she feels it too, knows she knows his reaction and that scares him, until a sweet tinkling of notes runs from her mind into his. He smiles to himself, and they close their eyes, focusing on their Bond, focusing on the idea of a body made up of the black silty soil they find all around them. He feels a sort of magnetism, like gravity has gotten stronger for only them, and weaker for the clay. When they open their eyes, they see the clay forming around them, sealing over their joined souls like armour. It covers them from their toes to their neck, flexible like fabric, but durable. He can actually _feel _the texture of it against them, and he feels a little more human now, more solid. He's not sure if that's a good or bad thing anymore, but it's certainly _something._

They're silent for a second, then Maka shouts joyfully, throwing their mudcaked arms in the air in celebration, and Soul can't help but feel her overwhelming joy surge through the both of them.

"We did it!"

Yeah, they did.

Then the mud sluffs off of them, but when Maka breaks their Resonance, Soul is hit with the most intense feeling of loss he's ever experienced.

She turns to him and embraces him so tightly that he wheezes though. He is dumbfounded, if only for a moment, shocked at the affection that's so foreign, but then he finally wraps his arms loosely around her waist, enjoying the warmth of her. He feels her cheek heat against his neck just before she pulls away, still blushing, but grinning triumphantly. He grins back.

"That - that was fucking awesome. Shit."

She giggles and shoves his shoulder playfully, saying triumphantly,"I guess we really do make a pretty good team, huh?"

His phantom heart lurches in his chest at her words. He digs his toes into the silty soil at the edge of the stream, and he can feel the texture, he can touch it. He's not sure why, but it makes him feel reassured.

"Yeah, I guess we do nerdlord."

She hipchecks him and he falls to the dirt. She's embarrassed now, flustered and apologetic, and she helps him up from where he has fallen, her face shrouded partly by her hair.

Then she gasps though, seemingly forgetting her embarrassment entirely.

Before he can ask, she puts a hand to his cheek, strokes it, and he leans into the touch, but she pulls her hand away and shows him the streaks of filth clinging to her fingertips. It's then that he remembers; becoming more tied to the realm is not the objective.

_**At all.**_

"We have to work faster."

The dark glow and determination in her eyes gives him hope that they can succeed.

But he admits to himself when he knows she can't hear, he's getting pretty worried.

* * *

><p>They rinse off in the water, silent and solemn in the knowledge that their time is ticking by far more quickly than they had thought. Their tangibility starts to fade and falter after a while of being out of resonance, and soon enough they can't feel the water on their skin anymore, but that vague ominous dread still clings to them persistently. He doesn't understand why they're becoming bound to the place so quickly, but it's unsettling. For some reason, guilt lurks in his heart, like maybe somehow it's his fault. Most things usually are.<p>

"We just need to not dilly dally so much is all. Don't be such a worrier, Frosty, it won't help you or me."

He nods, but the feeling of guilt and discomfort remains. She pokes his ribs,"You tired?"

He thinks back to the spider queen and the helplessness she imposed upon him.

"No. Are you?"

"Not a bit. Maybe we should start in on some nightmares to face..?"

Well that wasn't exactly what he was thinking. He kind of just wanted to sit at the base of the soul tree with her and try to organize his thoughts, but he can admit to himself that it would be a foolish expenditure of time.

"Alrighty. Play by school rules?"

"Huh-"

"OnetwothreeNOT IT. You go first. I'll be here for moral support."

She shoves him so hard that he falls into the stream face first this time, and he gasps, but no water enters his lungs; another perk of not _quite _being bound to this beautiful potential purgatory. He really, really doesn't want to die by way of waterlogged lungs.

She snaps him out of his thoughts,

"You're a real smartass sometimes, you know that?"

He turns back around to face her, still sitting in the stream, doing his best to look nonchalant, leaning back on his palms and crossing his legs at the ankles. The heart boxers kind of throw it off.

He retorts,"You prefer I be a dumbass?"

She rolls those gorgeous, fierce eyes."Ugh, shut it. Fine. Start basic, right? The sillier nightmares?"

Well, makes enough sense to him. Though he can't really think of any nightmares that don't leave him deeply disturbed.

He shrugs, pulling himself out of the little creek, dry as a bone.

"Sure, why not."

"Okay… Soul?"

"Hm?"

"Resonate with me?"

He tries not to notice the pleased little shiver that runs through him at the thought of being joined with her again.

"Yeah, I just, ah..."

Her brow furrows, and he almost reaches up to smooth it out, but quickly rights himself, disguising the gesture by scratching at the back of his neck, embarrassed and clueless.

"What's wrong?"

He winces at her sweet, concerned tone. He feels like an idiot, a failure of a companion, their so-called Bond will only keep her here longer, she should just go on without him, he's sure she can become strong enough on her o -

"Soul, calm down. We're in this together, alright? Tell me what's wrong, please?"

His eyes are downcast as he mumbles, "I dunno how we did it before."

A look crosses her face that is very distinctly an expression of 'Oh shit', and it just makes him feel worse. He can tell she senses it, because she links her pinky with his. He feels like a dorky little kid.

It's better than feeling like a lonely little kid, though.

She blows a large breath out through her nose, pushes her bangs back from her eyes, then offers a tired smile. "Okay, what were we doing when it happened?"

His face flames at the memory. A fucking ticklefight is what they were doing, how is he supposed to tell her _that _with a straight face?

But he doesn't actually have to say anything. She turns toward him, places her fingertips over his ribs, holding gently, and looks up into his eyes. The green of her own eyes is not cool, or acidic, but warm and pure. It reminds him of the summers when he and his brother would sneak out into the forest behind their house and play hide and seek among the baby green ferns. Everything was so beautiful and thrumming with life so loud he could almost hear it like a song. He rests his hands on her shoulders delicately, returning her gaze with a surprising amount of ease; he'd never been big on eye contact, he sees too much, _shows _too much that way.

For some reason though, it's not so terrifying when it's with her. The glow of the lost souls illuminate her face, her hair dipped in crystal and skin porcelain. He's hyper aware of the way his tongue sits in his mouth, his throat tight and lips dry. She's leaning in towards him, and he's panicking, flustered and confused, and he feels the memory of a rapid heart rate fluttering in his chest.

Her face is so close, her breath ghosting along his lips.

Then she presses her forehead to his, and he's relieved and disappointed, but mostly relieved, because he's absolutely positive he would _not_ know how to handle _that _situation.

"Just let me in."

So... he does. They meld together, two as one, and he feels that sense of completeness again. His mind is flooded with the loveliest melody, filled with hope and innocence, but also bearing undertones of hurt and betrayal. This is how he hears her. He thinks as loudly as possible that _he's sorry,_ but she just laughs and asks,

"For what? You're gonna stick by me, right? We'll get out of this. _Together._" He hears the notes of her soul waver, unsure beneath her confidence. It's strange realizing how similar they are when skin and pretense is stripped away. Things he hates within himself, he accepts within her. It's frightening and exhilarating. She's a stranger, yet she knows him better than anyone now. And he knows her.

It's an honor.

She closes their eyes and sifts through her dreams, flashes of burnt feathers and singed pages and glistening scalpels flickering on the insides of their eyelids. It spirals like a roulette wheel and makes him dizzy, tic tic tic tic ticking until she finally settles on one of her fears.

She opens their eyes, looks down to their bare feet, and hundreds of black snakes slither between their toes, curl around their legs, but they feel nothing, not the slick of the scales or the flick of the forked tongues. Little golden arrows cover the reptiles, pointing in every direction imaginable, undulating and writhing, but never making a move to strike.

Soul swallows down the lump of her panic in their throat and asks, "What do they mean?"

It seems like a strange question when he voices it out loud, but she tries to answer him all the same, voice shaky and soul trembling. "I-I don't know. I'm not even scared of snakes usually, it's just, it's like a bad omen and -" he feels something constricting around their chest, and she gasps out, frustrated and scared, "I don't know what it means."

Her music is frantic, the discord ringing painfully in his head, and he _hates _it, so he focuses on the memory of awakening to her lovely face, thinks of the most peaceful music he can imagine, and the tightness in their chest begins to loosen.

"Maka."

"Y-yeah?"

"I'm right here with you. Now lets try to figure this out, okay?"

Her song slows, levels out and quietens.

"Okay - okay, whenever I have this dream... I just get this intense feeling of dread. I want to get away from them, but I cant - I mean - I just don't know where to go, and they point me in all different directions and god, it's so overwhelming that I'm just-"

"Paralyzed?"

"...Yeah."

The hissing is white noise, no rhyme or reason to it. Chaotic and confusing and harsh.

"Well shit. Sounds like a school guidance office to me. Tell me. Do you know what you wanna do in your life?"

Her anger flares. "Who the fuck does?! Why does it even matter either way, I'll just end up doing whatever everyone else thinks is best for me anywa-"

"No."

"W-what?"

"You're going to do whatever you decide. You're too strong to let all the assholes in your life stomp all over you. You're gonna do what _you _want for you. Fuck what anyone else wants."

Her soul vibrates with frantic excitement and tenuous hope.

"It's not that easy though…"

"And why the fuck not?"

She's stunned silent.

Because she doesn't really know.

She _doesn't know _what's so difficult about it. He can _feel _that she doesn't know.

"I… I don't want to disappoint anyone."

Soul snorts, "Well, you're gonna have to get over that Maka. You're always gonna be disappointing someone, but if someone actually cares about you, they'll support you no matter what. Unless you're like - an ax murderer, but even then I think you'd only be going after bad people. Speaking of, if you ever choose to go that way, look me up and I'd be happy to help."

She giggles a little, and their chest is free from the constriction now, snakes slithering away one by one. He doesn't know where his little pep talk came from, doesn't even know if he really believes it entirely, but he knows that it's true for her at the very least, because _he_ will stand by her, even if everyone else is dumb enough to leave her, which he can't even imagine.

It's not worth much, but it's something.

"It's worth a lot actually."

"Huh?"

"You accepting me. It's worth a lot."

Oh.

What a strange concept, his opinion mattering…

He likes the idea of it.

Maybe a little too much.

He just has to ask, can't help the compulsion, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why does it matter to you?"

She's quiet for a moment, then tells him, "You know, I'm not exactly sure yet, but when I am, you'll know."

The idea that she would ever be sure thrills him.

She asks him, "Hey Soul?"

"Yeah?"

She grins, almost catlike.

"Up for another round?"

He smirks back at her.

"You got it, nerdlord."

* * *

><p>They only conquer one more of her terrors before going to bed, which involved her childhood pediatrician with a smoking problem and a penchant for scaring his patients with his 'super cool, shiny tools' (aka a metric fuckton of unnecessary scalpels and other crazy looking items that still fascinate and terrify Maka to this day).<p>

They sleep under the soul tree, out of Resonance but still close enough in proximity to get a bit of mental feedback from each other. She catches a few stray thoughts, he catches a few stray notes, and they fall asleep beside each other, hands barely touching but buzzing with their harmonized frequencies.

It's not quite enough to keep the nightmares away, but it's enough to keep him sane.

* * *

><p>When he awakens, it's to the sound of screaming, and Maka isn't beside him anymore. He is immediately frantic, because it sounds as if the the screams are coming from the sky, but that would be impossible, so impossible -<p>

He looks up and she is hurtling toward the earth. The smell of seared feathers and burning books assaults his senses, but he ignores it, just holds out his arms and braces himself. She slams into him with a force he didn't know possible, throwing them both to the ground, but she quickly rights herself, stands up and springs forth a fountain of apologies.

He's irrationally angry that _he _is the one she's worried about when _she_ was the one _falling from the goddamn sky like a meteor._ If they were both more solid at the moment, they would have made an idiots-sized crater in the soil. His chest aches from her slamming into him; he can't even imagine how she feels. He unsteadily gets to his feet to poke her all over, making sure she's still intact. Her arms and face are covered in soot, and when he pokes at her shoulder, he feels something quite like what his favourite pillow is stuffed with.

She has the wings of an angel, but most of the feathers are missing or burnt, and the image is one he is sure will haunt him until he dies. Her hair is singed short, and as he looks closer, he sees little drip tracks of burns running all down her arms and torso. He's afraid to touch her.

She sheepishly explains, shying away from his scrutiny, "My papa used to call me his little angel. My mama liked to tell me the story of Icarus before bed. Funny, isn't it? How people who love us so much with the best of intentions can fuck us up so badly…"

Funny wouldn't be his word of choice. Tragic, infuriating, awful, unfair, dispicable, un**fuckingbe-**

"Hey now, Soul, it's okay. It doesn't hurt or anything anymore, it just caught me off guard is all. I guess me dreaming about it summoned it without me trying. Thanks for uh, catching me, by the way. Are you alright?"

The words of the story of Icarus flutter through the air all around them.

He grits out, "I'm fine. Stop fucking worrying about me and worry about yourself goddamnit."

She chuckles, "In all fairness, worrying about you is in my best interest."

"Yeah yeah, laugh it up asshole. Just try to have some sense of self-preservation please? You're gonna make me prematurely grey."

"Ha, Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think that ship has sailed buddy."

"Hardy har," he halfheartedly mocks, but there's no real energy behind it. "Seriously though Maka. Are you gonna be okay?"

"Of course, just give it a minute. Look, see?"

She spreads her arms out wide, the burn marks already fading, her battered wings falling away in ashes. She gives him a smile that doesn't reach her eyes, tells him, "It never lasts long. The present is easy to deal with. It's the future you imagine as you're falling that's the real problem."

Soul is again forcefully reminded of the concert he will have to perform before hundreds, and it makes him feel sick, scared, and unprepared. She looks at him curiously, eyes belying her wish to ask, but he quickly banishes the thoughts of his soon-to-be-failure (if he even succeeds in escaping this place, just in time to fail in another).

"Maybe we should take a break, yeah? Go and explore for a little while. You deserve a breather. Sound good?"

It takes her only a split second to agree to the proposal. She ponders, "I wonder if we'll meet anyone interesting -"

He scoffs, "Please god, don't jinx us. Our luck, we'll end up meeting that weirdo from the twelfth century."

"Aw cmon, I hear he's not _that _terrible, just… don't make eye contact. Or start a conversation. Actually, Kid said it's just best to avoid him entirely."

"How will I know who he is?"

"Liz said, and I quote, 'Look for the white penguin looking guy with the dick nose', so I imagine he's hard to miss."

He tries to imagine it, but quickly gives up, too disturbed with the image his mind provides him with. Maka lets out a little gasp that startles him, running over to the edge of the stream and leaning over the rippling, glowing water. He darts after her, muttering profanities and angry words of caution, but when he reaches her, she's speaking. Not to him, he's sure, but not to herself either -

He lays a steadying hand on her shoulder and leans over to see what she is seeing.

And Mr. Le Pew is back, his gunslinger girls on either side of him, speaking from the water, telling Maka about some sort of party?

Liz is the only one to even acknowledge him.

"Hey, Casper, you and your girlfriend are invited to a little get together we're having tonight. You get to meet the Reapers. See you then?"

The connection is cutting out, ripples taking away the image of the three of them. He's not even given time to splutter indignantly that _she's not his girlfriend, _but he does have the time to shout, "How the fuck will we know where to go?!"

Liz laughs, "Follow the yellow shroom road of course!"

And they're gone.

…

"The fuck does that mean!?"

"Exactly what it sounds like, it seems."

Maka points to the area around his feet where the tiniest little golden toadstools are popping up, leading them on a winding path back through the massive forest of grass. The little glowing fungi beckon them forth, but something uncomfortable lurks in the back of his mind.

"Don't you think their timing was a _little _too perfect?"

"Pff, Kid has eyes all over this place, don't even worry about it."

"That reeeally doesn't make me feel any better. Like, at all."

"Aw, quit worrying so much, I'm ready to dance! Let's go!"

He thinks back to all those stingy parties after Wes's performances, with old people who wore too much perfume or aftershave and liked to pinch his cheeks in a way that crossed the line from endearing to excessively condescending.

"I, ah, m'not much of a party person."

She laces her fingers with his and grins,

"There'll be music."

Welp.

Shit.

Guess he's going to a party.

* * *

><p>They aren't walking for very long before their pathway dissipates into golden light and rises to decorate the trees like fireflies, and Soul can't hear any music yet, but he's still hopeful. Kid greets them pleasantly, cordially, and Soul is uncomfortable with the formality of it, but makes no mention.<p>

Maka asks Kid, "Who did the mushroom trick?"

And he is poised to answer when they hear a gleeful shout of, "Meeeeeeee, that was allllll me! Pretty groovy ain't it?" Patti runs toward them, in heels and a matching red dress, and almost pulls Maka into a hug, but with a sudden remembrance of the harm it could cause, and a slightly crestfallen look, she waves instead. Soul can feel Maka's melancholy, curls his pinky finger around hers surreptitiously and is rewarded with warm static and a quiet melody of gratitude. It's comforting in an otherwise extremely distressing situation.

Patti continues after her brief lapse,"Me and sissy can share our abilities. I always wanted to be a grower, she always wanted to be with the Fuzz. Guess we both gotta bit of what we wanted huh sis?"

Liz strolls up next to her sister, clad in a red dress identical to Patti's, grinning proudly.

"My 'lil sis sure is somethin' else. She can control her wavelength and use it however she wants. You all seen what a killer shot she is with it?"

Soul cringes at the memory of having the wind knocked out of him, spitting out a sullen '_**yes**_'. Maka has to stifle a giggle, and he tries to twist her pinky in a childish game of mercy, but quickly gives up. Good god, what gave her such a ridiculously strong grip?!

She laughs, perching herself up on her tiptoes to whisper softly in his ear, "Captain of the varsity lacrosse team, Frosty. They call me Iron-Arms Albarn."

A shiver runs through him, and he would swear he could feel her eyelashes brush against his throat, but he keeps the thought to himself, coveting it. After having a shaken, molting angel in his arms earlier, he has to admit to himself that seeing the bolder side of Maka again is really, _really _relieving.

And kind of hot.

Before he can continue the thought, a stocky, dark-skinned guy with short cornrows tight along the sides of his head walks up to them. He is wearing a bloodied private school uniform, but seems wholly unconcerned, and raises his hand casually in greeting.

"Yo, I'm Kilik, nice to finally meet you. Soul and Maka, right? Liz hasn't shut up about you lovebirds since you showed up." He says it innocently enough, but Soul can detect the chuckle he's hardly holding in.

What a snarky dick.

Soul likes him already.

And Maka made no attempt to correct the 'lovebirds' assumption. Whether that be out of annoyance, indifference, or agreement, he's far from sure, but he kinda hopes it's the latter of the three.

Kilik just smirks, like he's seen right through Soul instantly. Soul resists the urge to flip him off.

Kid interrupts the staredown, "Anyway, the rest of the Reapers are on their way, we should head over."

The name of their gang isn't very comforting.

But Soul is confused, the place where they've met up is nice enough, wide open spaces and plenty of places to hide away.

"The party isn't gonna be here?"

Even Soul can hear the distress in his own voice.

Kid offers him a vaguely sympathetic look when he replies, "No, it isn't.

* * *

><p>They're lead back to the tree where Kid first introduced himself and offered some guidance. Apparently, Liz, Patti, and he had all worked for years to make it home, creating Soul Objects to build and fill it.<p>

And Soul has to admit, the place is an architectural masterpiece.

Two staircases twist upwards to meet in the middle, perfectly symmetrical when seen from the front door, their railings beautifully carved into polished black curls that almost remind him of smoke. The floor is white marble and black granite, stretching out before him in a pattern that almost reminds him of the backgammon board he and his gran used to play on, complete with black and white beanbag chairs arranged perfectly along the points like checkers.

He wishes he could feel the coolness of it against the soles of his feet. Just beneath a carpet that reminds him of a Rorschach test (which he actively avoids focusing on) he can see the vague outline of a trapdoor.

Interesting, if not a little worrisome.

He's glad for the fact that only a few people are there when they arrive, because it gives him a chance to explore. Maka is instantly immersed in conversation with a girl with long black hair tied up in a loop and a petunia tattooed between her shoulderblades. He tries to ignore the echoes of wounds mark her skin, faint purple and blue and green washing out along her back before pulling away again like waves. She didn't get here the same way as he did, that much is obvious, but he's not sure he can stomach the possible scenarios which put her here.

It's difficult to feel as sorry for himself when he watches the girl with the dark hair and bright eyes talks to Maka amicably, smiling kindly at her and leading her over to a pair of seats. The excitement and interest in Maka's eyes is something that gives him hope, do he holds onto the feeling greedily, but leaves her to socialize. Making his way up one of the staircases, he shakes his head as if the action might actually dislodge the images of the dark haired girl's skin blooming with old pain.

He nearly slams into someone at the top of the staircase, too trapped in his own looping, pessimistic train of thought to even notice that anyone else had been near. The shock of the wavelength he comes into contact with feels like that time one of his very few, very unfriendly friends dared him to grab the wire of an electrical fence. He almost falls backward down the stairs, but catches himself on the railing and rights himself, trying to look anywhere but at the stranger he just smashed into, but ultimately failing. When looks up to apologize to whoever he walked into, still shaking off the feeling of being an absolute idiot, his voice catches in his throat.

A veiny web of pink scars creeps from under the guy's shirt collar and up the side of his pale face, curling around one of his dark eyes. His brow is split in 3 places, the scar tissue shining in the eerie glow of the bioluminescent mushrooms clinging to the ceiling. His skin resembles wood that's been burrowed into by carpenter worms, the bark peeled away to show the damage done.

It's amazing and terrifying.

His dark hair hangs shaggy and long, but not long enough to conceal the abnormal markings.

Before Soul even gets a chance to apologize, the guy speaks, his voice low but clear. "Don't worry about it. I was pretty amazed the first time I saw this place too. It's a lot to take in. Name's Harvey."

Soul finds his voice and tells Harvey his own name.

The guy just snorts, his nose wrinkling, scars catching the light again, and Soul makes a note to stop staring, stop staring, stop fucking staring you weirdo. What was that trick? If he just looks at the point directly above Harvey's head, it'll seem like he's making eye contact, and not like he's studying the scars on Harvey's face.

If Harvey notices Soul's inner panic, he has the intuition not to mention it, for which Soul is incredibly grateful. He reminds himself that he himself isn't exactly the average guy-next-door type, and tries to take comfort in that fact. Maybe if Harvey would stare rudely at Soul's grandpa hair, he'd feel better about being the dickwad who can't bring himself to make eye contact. He's so pathetically fearful, and it pulls at him from all corners of his mind, tearing at the walls and -

He snaps out of his haze when Harvey addresses him.

"Soul, huh? Ironic."

Funny. That's exactly what Maka had said. Maybe that's Soul's purpose in the world.

To be ironic.

Harvey blows a breath out of his nose boredly, sighs,"These parties are always such a wash."

Ah, finally, some common ground, some way to break the ice.

"Never been fond of parties myself. Too many people, too much white noise. It's disorienting."

Harvey shrugs, "Bad luck to gather so many souls in one place. But it is what it is."

It's a strange thing to say, Soul thinks, but it seems to usually be true. Nothing good has ever come from large crowds of people. Not for him, at least.

"Yeah, guess so."

They're both quiet for a moment, and Soul looks at anything but Harvey, because that dark gaze is like a fucking x-ray and it freaks him out just a little.

Okay, maybe a lot.

Harvey pushes off from where he's been leaning against the wall, patting down the back of his hair where static electricity has made it stand up and clearing his throat. "Well, I'll leave you to it. There's a balcony on the forty-second floor. You can take the elevator on floor three to get there."

And he's gone before Soul can even thank him. Maybe it's better off that way though. He doesn't really feel like talking at the moment.

The rooms he has to walk through to get to the elevator are incredibly mismatched and not at all what he expects. The first has giraffe print wallpaper and toys strewn everywhere, clothing heaped in the middle of the room. There's a table covered in art supplies by a large window, and while it's far from his personal tastes, there is something charming about it. Perhaps it's just fact that the opportunity for creativity still exists here? Not that it matters much for him, he's shit at art and gets lightheaded around wet paint.

The room above it is far different, the walls the colour of gunmetal, carpet thick, shaggy, and dark. The bed is unmade, but massive, with countless plush looking pillows. A dresser the colour of charcoal sits beside the bed, filled with strange contraptions (is that a fucking eyelash curler? They're practically dead, who the fuck needs a goddamn eyelash curler?) and a collection of nail polish and clothing that almost rivals the one his own mother has accumulated over the years. He's incredibly confused as to how all of these Soul Objects came to be, but he decides that he doesn't much care at the moment. Getting some fresh air is the real objective.

The elevator is directly across from the opening in the floor he crawled through, and when he gets inside, he has to laugh a little; just like in any building with enough stories in the real world, the thirteenth floor is missing. It's amazing how unreal yet strangely normal the place has begun to feel. The unsettling weight lurking in his chest implies that maybe getting used to being a rejected soul may not necessarily be a good thing, but he ignores it in favour of pressing the button that will take him to temporary freedom.

The quiet hum of jazz surrounds him when the polished, mirror-like doors close. He tries not to dwell on the threatening points of his teeth peeking out from under his lips. He knows his eyes are the colour of blood, but he can't bring himself to look and check, and he wonders whose cruel idea it was to construct a tiny box entirely of reflective surfaces. He hopes that they can stand themselves far more than he can. Suddenly, he misses Maka's presence a great deal. Being left to his own thoughts is more difficult than he remembers it being.

But the elevator indicates that he's already at floor thirty-eight, and he resigns himself to wasting away the night on the balcony while the rest of the attendees converse and make connections, share secrets and laugh and cry and do - well, whatever it is that friends normally would do.

The elevator doors roll open with a cartoonish little ding, and he thinks it might have been a trick, because the room is entirely bare, but as he sluffs his way into the room, it morphs into something that makes his skin crawl and bile creep into the back of his throat.

The tiles on the floor are checkered, black and red and oh so garish, and he feels that familiar silken noose around his throat. His arms are stiff in the fabric of his pinstripe performance tux, and his toes complain angrily at being stuffed into such awful shoes. Blood coloured curtains cover the walls, and he can see it, his way to freedom, but that gaping hole in the wall isn't as comforting as he thought it might be, because in the center of the room lay a piano, fallboard already open, keys covered in unsightly dust.

His heart fills with the lead-heavy feeling of shame as he stares down at it. What a beautiful instrument, left all alone for so long, unable to sing or speak. He's always felt such a kinship with it.

The only way it can ever convey any idea is if someone else manipulates its strings.

He walks past it, as fast as his crisp suit and tight shoes will allow, eyes firmly ahead on the opening to the balcony. He will not allow a hallucination, a redundant nightmare to have such control over him. It's how he got twisted up into this mess of a realm to begin with.

A jazz record skips, and skips, and skips, and he speeds his steps, the tie tightening ever so slightly with each and every glitch.

The moment he steps foot on the balcony though, his formal attire melts away, and for once he's actually glad to be only in his ridiculous boxers. His chest feels lighter, and with his toes free he can feel the frequency of the voices below rumbling through the tree, a sound he can't hear, but rather senses as it thrums in the rings of the tree. He wonders if it makes them a bit like time travelers, to inhabit something that existed in all those different periods, lived through all those years.

Then he wonders if he's just an idiot. Seems more likely. He doesn't even understand fully how time works here. Maybe decades, centuries all happen at once, and everything that could ever possibly be thought of is being though right now.

Lame. Brooding over time and all the bullshit of the world and all the things he can't comprehend alone on a balcony?

Way, way fucking lame.

He never realized how much he despises being alone until now. Feeling everyone's wavelengths vibrate pleasantly through the soles of his feet - up his legs and into his chest - makes him wish to know what they're like, how they got here, why it's so fucking easy for them all to reach out to each other. Even the dude with the scarred up face seemed to be alright with mingling (though Soul has to admit that the scars were pretty rad looking; what could they be from?).

"Soul?"

He almost falls over the railing, so startled by Maka's voice that if he had a physical heart, he's sure it might've exploded in irrational panic. He takes a deep breath, not out of necessity, but purely for the sake of the comfort that comes from normalcy, and asks without looking at her, "How the hell did you find me?"

"Harvey told me where to find you. He's a pretty cool guy. I think you two might get along if you'd actually come downstairs and - ya know. Mingle."

He hums noncommittally, deftly dodging her request. "I met him. He's alright. Weird scar."

She gently chides, "You'd know how he got it if you'd just get your butt down there and socialized a little bit."

He's a bit ashamed of his cowardice, but says it anyway, the words leaving a sour taste in his mouth as they leave it. "Why can't you just tell me how he got the thing? Or things, whatever, it all looked connected like this kind of river splitting off into separate streams or something, it's pretty aweso -"

A strange look comes into her eyes. She looks very far away even though she's standing close enough for him to feel her wavelength reaching for his own. He apologizes.

"Sorry, I'm kind of a dick, huh? Scars aren't awesome. They come from pain."

"Yeah. But scars just mean you survived. He survived, in a way. I think he wears it proudly. Like a badge of honor."

Her voice is so close, it's unnerving and wonderful and melodic but sweet as well, tinged with something else he can't quite place. Dark amusement? Yeah, that must be it. He turns to look at her, curious as to what expression goes with such a voice, and has to stifle a gasp.

She is wrapped in a gown of dripping, molten onyx, the smooth fabric clinging to her skin in a way that he can only think of as sinful and heavenly. An oxymoron, he knows, and it frightens him how his fingers twitch; he wants to know the feel of that fabric on his fingertips.

Was it his mind that dressed her this way? With such sexual beauty, such obvious confidence, hugging her curves and caressing her skin in what he is sure is black silk? Should he be ashamed? Should he apologize?

The hem of her dress creeps further up her thighs, and he thinks of anything and everything but her. She deserves far better, shouldn't be objectified in such a way by an asshole like him, purely because she wanted to include him in the festivities before he would have to face the very fears that landed him here to begin with.

But she pays her exposed thighs no mind, simply strides proudly onto the balcony with him and clasps his hand in one of hers, placing her other hand over both of theirs and squeezing. Her dress melts away once again, and she's left in her original garb, the sports bra and pajama shorts somehow downplaying the womanly figure her gown had made apparent. He is - disappointed? Relieved? Perhaps ashamed.

She squeezes his hand again and jokes, "Stop worrying so much. You might go prematurely grey."

He shakes his head, his sinful thoughts rattling against the walls of his brain and scrambling into something more suitable for the situation at hand. He looks into her eyes, held by her gaze. He tugs the fingers of his free hand through the back of his hair, scratching at the back of his neck and arranging the follicular anomaly clinging to his head into a mess that he's sure is at least slightly amusing. If he can make her laugh, he may just get through this yet. If he can make her laugh, he may forget his own pain, if only for a moment.

He tugs on his bangs, glancing up at her through them. "Like you said, that ship has sailed. At least you still like me. Right?" He bats his eyelashes at her theatrically, putting on his best 'adopt me' face.

She laughs, and though she tries to conceal it in a cough, he knows better.

She shrugs,"Eh you're alright. Though I don't think everyone else will just take me by my word, me being a newbie and all too. So, wanna come down and make some friends with me?"

He thinks of all those hours he spent hiding in bathrooms and corners and storage rooms during fancy galas with too much food and too much chatter and too little true communication.

He thinks of the disappointment on the faces of all of the most important people, the associates of his parents, the richest and most talented. The people who really matter.

And then he thinks of how irrelevant that all is here, and he smiles at her, pulls her into a soft embrace and says, "You know what? Yeah, sure. I'll follow you. Just lead the way."

He thinks he might follow just about anywhere she would lead him.


	3. Part 3

Note: You guys know the drill, enjoy!

* * *

><p>She leads him back through the room that morphs into blood and ink, but she makes no mention of it, though he can tell she sees it all just as well as he can. She leads him to the elevator, and somehow his reflection bothers him far less when she is beside him in that shiny, polished surface.<p>

She leads him upward, first, which is unnerving and exhilarating. She presses the button for the fifty-sixth floor, and smiles secretively even though he is the only one around to see it.

"Harvey told me to come up here when I found someone worth taking."

Soul jokes, "Sure been talkin' to Harvey a lot, huh? You sure he didn't want you to take him?"

"Eh, got some brotherly vibes from him. And he nicknamed me Squirt, which is weird as all hell and actually, you know, I'm not gonna read into it too much, nevermind."

Soul snorts at that, allowing himself to fall into a minor fit of chortles before regaining his composure, and she grins, her soul radiating amusement and just the tiniest bit of embarrassment. He quietly revels in the implication that her feelings toward him are possibly a bit more than platonic, her warmth comfortable and her melody surrounding him.

When the doors to the elevator slip open once more though, he's rendered absolutely silent, that silly little _ding _seeming to reverberate through the air now as he takes a look into the room.

In the middle of it there seems to be some sort of glass prism, and the dome shaped room's walls are completely covered in spots of light, constellations twisting and curling like they're alive. He pulls her closely beside him as he takes his first step into the universe, and for some reason, he doesn't feel so insignificant, but he's fairly sure that it's because she's with him. She brings him purpose that he never would have had before.

And maybe it's a little unhealthy to rely on another person so heavily, especially one who he only met hardly a day ago, but he's never dared to rely on anyone but himself, not even his brother really, and he's giddy with the desire to trust in her.

So he decides that he does.

"Hey," he catches her attention with that single syllable, and it takes him a moment to gather his wits again to actually tell her what he meant to. "I never really miss the sun when night comes around, ya know? Which is kinda ironic, considering how shitty night time has treated me so far in life. But being awake for it... I like that. When everything gets so quiet, all the cars off the roads and the cities shut down. You can just hear people _existing._ I think it's ah… well. It's pretty cool I guess. Daytime is harsh."

She squeezes his hand, her shoulder flush against his arm as she stares up into their disconnected sky.

"Makes sense," she murmurs, "but I think there's a kind of beauty in the harshness of day. I guess it's the honesty of it? You can't hide in the day the way you can in the night."

"You're braver than me. But that's no news to me."

She pinches his elbow with the hand that isn't clasped with his own, showing her frustration with him.

"You underestimate yourself too much. You gotta cut it out, or I'll whoop your ass buddy."

He knows she totally could too, which only makes him more certain of her strength and bravery. But then he thinks of the first part of her statement, and it takes him by surprise for some reason. He's always thought he overestimated his abilities, his character, thought he was better than he actually is and paid dearly for it, his currency used in fulfilling that debt all confidence and self-assurance he ever had, which wasn't much to begin with. A costly thing. He hasn't got much left to give, but it seems that Maka has an abundance to share with him. He's frightened by the faith she's placed in him.

"I'm just preparing you so you're not disappointed later. I've disappointed enough people, I don't really feel like adding you to that list. And," he tries to shift the tone to something more lighthearted," I definitely don't feel like getting my ass kicked." She doesn't take the bait, instead turning her intense gaze to him and a way that makes his skin prickle.

"You won't disappoint me."

The words are like a punch to the solar plexus.

He can't have her believe that. It'll only hurt her more when he fails her.

"Don't be so sur-" She stops him, a hand clapped over his mouth, and his first instinct is to lick her palm, but he refrains, waiting for her to say what she has to.

"You won't. You know how I know?"

No, but he's interested.

She uncovers his mouth so he can reply, staring expectantly.

"Do tell, oh wise one."

"Alright," she says, shifting her hand so her palm rests on his temple. He doesn't flinch. "I've seen into your mind. Not a lot, but enough. And you, Soul, are _so much_ stronger than you think."

Nothing she's said to him up to this point has hurt quite as much as this, because she's wrong, she's never wrong but she's so wrong about this, and he can already see it, the way he will fail her, and he hates it.

But he swallows the feeling down quickly, jokes, "Golly gee Maka, you're gonna make me blush here."

She huffs, exasperated, "Don't be such a smartass, I'm being serious!"

He can't help but smile at how flustered she gets so easily, her reluctant way of telling him something heartfelt all the more endearing.

"So am I, if there was more light in here you'd be able to see it, bet my face looks like I got scarlet fever."

"Aw fuck off. Here I was trying to be sentimental and you just mess it all up. Typical man."

"Hey, my dick isn't what makes me emotionally stunted okay, that one's all on me, my buddy down there has nothing to do with it."

"Sounds like you're full of shit."

"Sounds like you're a little jaded, who broke your heart?"

Wrong thing to say.

Her hand slips from his. He can hardly hear her when she says it, as if she's only really talking to herself, "My heart isn't the one that matters."

And he doesn't know what to say to that, because of course her heart matters, her emotions matter, her state of mind matters goddamnit, but he's too fucking emotionally _stunted_ for that kind of honesty, so he just stands beside her silently, his fingers cautiously pressing against the inside of her wrist, asking her permission to offer some sort of comfort, however meager it may be.

He can feel her muscles tense, like she might pull away, but she doesn't. She takes his hand and pulls him back toward the elevator. He groans dramatically, and she huffs out a quiet chuckle. The sound of it makes him feel lighter. If he has to suffer to bring forth such a lovely thing from her, he doesn't much mind.

They don't speak on their voyage downward, but rather than making the time seem to slow down, their comfortable silence it seems to make the ride far too short. He would have liked more time just with her, more time without the others, but he knows that she wants him to try, and he will, if only for her.

The doors open, and she leads him through those gunmetal and giraffe print rooms, leads him to the room where all of the Reapers have gathered, and her hand in his makes it so, _so _much easier. He thinks that maybe this way, he will be okay. Words won't escape him. She is an infinite fountain of energy and knowledge, and with her by his side, maybe he will find a way to speak properly without an instrument.

His throat seals shut when they begin down one of the staircases to the common room where they had first entered the home. He takes a moment to really look at the carpet over the trapdoor, that Rorschach test, and he sees a demon. He's going to be sick.

Maka halts their steps.

"Soul?"

"Mm?"

"I'm right here."

She is his courage and strength.

They make their way to the end of the stairs, and are greeted warmly by all.

* * *

><p>A girl with short, bubblegum pink hair is one of the first to approach him of the group, and Maka, his lifeline, abandons him with a little wink, off to speak with the woman with the petunia tattoo. It takes all his self restraint not to trot after her like a lost puppy, cause that'd be lame, and he's really doing his best not to be so lame, honestly he is.<p>

"How'd you get in here Q-tip? Someone mistake you for a demon and try to perform an exorcism? That's rough buddy."

The sarcasm comes to him second nature. The thought that his mother night be horrified thrills him. He hates pretending to be polite, and he decides that if he's going to try to make new friends, he might as well be honest about how much of a prick he can be. So he scoffs at the girl, "Like you can talk, _cotton candy. _Was your role model a highlighter?"

She pays absolutely no mind to his snark, staring at him expectantly, turquoise eyes piercing and entirely too observant. He looks instead up at the glowing ceiling, moving to shove his hands in his pockets, awkwardly realizing he has none.

"Nice try buddy, but I know dodging when I see it. You want me to tell you my story first? Would that make you feel better demonboy?"

"Be my guest, but stop calling me that shit."

"Oh c'mon dude, _lighten up,_ I bet you get more pussy than I do, even if you look like a villain in folklore tales, and that's really saying something cause I've got game."

A dark haired girl in a Catholic school uniform standing just a few feet away goes rigid, and he thinks he sees _smoke _coming out of her ears, but maybe he's just hallucinating again. That must be Bubblegum's woman. No shortage of irony in this place, huh?

It's pretty damn funny and a little flattering though - in a weird way - that she'd think he gets any action whatsoever. He's virginal as virgins get.

"Somehow I highly doubt I've got anything on your lady slaying skills..?" He trails off, unsure if she ever introduced herself or not and a little too embarrassed to ask her outright. Luckily, she's quick on the uptake.

"Kim. Ya know it's funny you should say that Soul, 'cause my killer charisma and good looks are part of why I ended up here. Some dudebro scumbags at school found out I like ladies and that all the pretty ladies liked me too. Cowardly fuckheads ambushed me after class and beat the hell out of me. I think someone threw a rock at my head or some shit, probably, and tadaaaa, coma. Here I am. I would have gone back just so I could sue the fuck out of the people those stupid bigoted hicks, but then I met that hothead over there and fell for her _hard._ Took me a while to actually _say _that to her. Actually, now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure she thought I hated her for a while… anywho, when I finally pulled my head out of my ass and fessed up it was awesome. I didn't want to go back, and she couldn't, got herself into too much trouble back in the real world, so we stayed here instead. Everything just worked itself out. Who knew such shitty situations could make such awesome things happen?"

Her story is fucking horrific if you ask him. Getting beaten half to death by a group of her peers for loving whoever she loves? His parents never spoke to him about that, but Wes had told him that when it comes to love, the shape and form don't matter at all. It meant so much to Soul in so many ways, and he never forgot those words.

It's only the soul that matters.

So, he supposes that she's right, in a way. If she found happiness in this place in a way she wouldn't find it in another, then maybe she was fortunate in some twisted, cruel way.

"I guess you're right."

"Of course I am! That'll be twenty bucks."

"What?"

"Pfff I'm just fucking with you dude. But keep it in mind. Hey Jackie! C'mere and meet the demon spawn, I bet he can help you learn how to control that thing you do when you summon the flames of hell!"

He has to bite back his amusement, trying his best to look mildly disgruntled with the shitty nicknaming, but it's difficult. He makes no further comment as the 'hothead' named Jackie storms over, face _literally __**flaming, holyfuckingshit. **_He thought it was all an elaborate joke, a metaphor, _something, _but not literal. He's struck dumb when Kim places a hand on one of Jackie's flaming cheeks, putting out the fire easily with her touch and remaining unscathed.

Jackie still doesn't look all too happy though. "Kim, are you _ever _going to let me live that down?"

"Awwww come onnnn babe, I know you went to a Catholic school and all, but you also burned that school down, sooooo why don't you just _chill._"

Jackie looks like she wants to punch someone, fists clenched tight and shaking at her sides, but he sees how Kim's expression softens from amusement to sympathy, and when she slips her fingers into Jackie's, the flame is snuffed out. Her ears are still smoking, and her cheeks are bright red, but she looks significantly calmer than before. Soul can't help but relate; it looks just how he feels when Maka is around him.

When he takes into consideration that Jackie and Kim are in fact a couple, he blushes at the implications of his reactions to Maka.

"What's with you dude, thinkin' about your totally dreamy girlfriend over there?"

_Goddamnit, can __**everyone **__tell he's caught a case of the feelings?_

He tries to brush it off."Oh fuck off Kim, she's not my girlfriend. "We met like - yesterday."

"You guys can resonate though, **and** you blush like a schoolgirl whenever you're thinking about her. It's kind of hilariously adorable, if not just a little pathetic."

"Wha -" he chokes on air, chokes on just how _easily _this chick saw through him," is this witchcraft?!"

"Tch, it's called being perceptive. But dude, I know you guys have basically merged before and all that, but if you ever get out of this hole and get back to the real world, make sure you take her on a real nice date. Just cause you're soulmates and all doesn't mean you get off that easy, you better court the hell out of her. Buy her nice things and shit. Kiss her in the rain, I dunno, anything, but you better do something."

He tries again, but it's weak, "I told you, she's not my-"

Kim interrupts immediately, cocking an eyebrow incredulously, "Listen frosted flake, she's totally into you and you're totally into her so get the fuck over your teen angst and remember what I just told you 'cause it's gonna get you laid someday."

She gives him a look that says his only option is to agree. Jackie doesn't even argue, she just nods, a little smile on her face, dark eyes glazed over like she's in another place. Soul doesn't wanna know where, but he can assume.

"Duly noted."

"Good. Now come and mingle, Beast Boy, everyones been waiting. You can tell me your story later, when you're ready."

That time he catches the affectionate little ring in her voice, and he feels a bit better.

He's never gonna be able to keep up with all the nicknames though, good lord.

* * *

><p>"I had a d-dream about ah, um… I dreamed I killed my mother, and i-it scared me so much that I uh, well I guess it sent me here."<p>

The kid with hair like deranged cotton candy twiddles their thumbs, eyes downcast and shoulders hunched. Soul feels bad for wondering what their gender is, but he doesn't make any mention of it; only the soul that matters, remember, and this soul is telling something very personal, so he instead focuses on their story, like any _decent human being should, goddamnit._

A boy with garish blue hair whistles lowly and says,"Damn, Crona, _dude._ That's _fucked _up."

And Soul absolutely agrees, that is way, way fucked up, but he knows better than to actually _say _that shit. Apparently he's not the only one with that thought, because the first woman Maka had spoken to with the petunia tattoo who is currently perched beside him on his chair scolds him, gritting through her impressively straight teeth, "Blake don't be rude, it takes a lot of courage be so open about something so personal."

Blake scoffs at her, but Soul doesn't miss the hint of shame that flits through Blake's eyes. It seems that Maka catches it as well. He can see her in his peripheral vision, staring intently at Blake, her eyes searching and curious.

"Oh cmon Tsu, I'm just being honest! 'Sides, who the fuck am I to judge, some little punk fucking knocked me out with a golf club. I mean, that's super fucking lame. Gods don't go out that way." Tsubaki sighs and flicks his ear, but it's a fond gesture, so simple yet so intimate that Soul feels as if he's stolen a moment that he was never meant to witness.

He's incredibly grateful for the interruption when Kid rolls his golden, ice tinted eyes dramatically, his tone somehow sounding bored and resigned when he sighs, "Could you _please _refrain from referring to yourself as a god? It crosses the line into sacrilege. And try to pick one story to stick to, your variations are getting more and more predictable. A golf club? Really Blake? You're getting rusty."

"Ohhh fuck off Kid," Blake retorts, his chest puffing up like an agitated chicken, "like you give a single flying fuck."

Kid shrugs, "I may not personally be offended, but I am annoyed, and that's more than enough reason for me to tell you to cut the shit."

It's like some deranged sitcom, Soul can't help but get pulled in. Maka watches intently alongside him, her eyes flickering back and forth between the two bickering boys. She squints at Blake, like maybe she's trying to figure out if she's seen him in a movie or something ridiculous. He doesn't miss the amusement he feels in her soul when Blake claps both his hands to his cheeks, a mock-expression of surprise on his face as he crows, "Oh my goodness gracious, guys, did I hallucinate or did the almighty Kiddo just cuss me out? Is this real life?!"

Some dude with shaggy brown hair that's comically spiked on each side of his head pulls himself from the background purely for the sake of interrupting, "Well technically no, seeing as this is an entirely different realm from the one we were born into, but I assume that's not what you were referring to."

Blake makes it perfectly clear that the response was unwelcome, his voice absolutely drenched in sarcasm when he deadpans, "No Ox, it wasn't, but thank you for that fascinating input, really. So fucking interesting."

Soul feels the urge to laugh, or speak up, but he stifles both, just as he always does, and Maka nudges him like she knows what he's done, knows that he's shut himself up again. He can tell that she doesn't approve at all of his way of dealing with things, but her expression is somehow encouraging, and he thinks he might as well _try _to actually be a part of the conversation.

Even if he makes an ass of himself, it's not like it's the end of the world or anything.

_Right?_

He shakes off the incredibly _irrational _thoughts that try to creep their way into his mind, instead trying to ease the tension between the quarreling idiots by changing the subject.

"Oi, Ox. How'd you end up here?"

Ox laughs a little sheepishly, fingers lacing in front of him, and the drastic shift in his demeanor almost gives Soul whiplash. Ox looks awkward as hell, and for some reason it makes Soul feel a little better, even though it's selfish. He feels a bit less alone the more that everyone talks, showing their true colours.

"Bah, well, I was in this really amazing library in New York, you know that massive one with a few different levels? Well I was scouring the shelves in the top floor for books on ways to help awaken someone from a coma. I found a few that seemed to have some real promise, actually, and I was just heading back to the hospital, but _of course_ on the way back down, the elevator cable snapped or _something _absurd, et viola. It was like a cosmic joke."

Shitty way to go, but Soul guesses it could be worse.

_Still though._

"Harsh dude. Who were you trying to wake up?"

Ox's expression drops from mild amusement to intense guilt immediately. Soul feels the way the air thickens, almost crackling, charged.

The heavy hearted boy points to Harvey, but Harvey just shrugs, says again, like an echo of Soul's first conversation with him, "It is what it is."

It's like a switch flips, and Ox is _fuming._

"Don't downplay it, for the love of all that is holy, _do not. _It was entirely my fault that you ended up here to begin with. Both of us are well aware of this fact."

Harvey wears an expression that can really only be described as absolutely done with the conversation, sighing and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Christ, don't be dramatic. I knew that having a two person scrimmage in a storm is idiotic, and I did it anyway. I easily could have told you to shove that aluminum bat right up your preppy ass and let me sleep, but I didn't. Cool it with the guilt complex Ox. Seriously."

Soul can hardly keep up; the sitcom is suddenly a soap opera about a bunch of dumbass kids whose bodies got sick of trying so hard. It's a little heartbreaking, a little funny, and a lot interesting.

Ox doesn't say anything more.

Harvey just looks _so very tired._

Everyone is quiet for a bit, sitting in their silly little circle. It's like group therapy for those weak of heart. Soul's wondering where the hell that promised music is.

And just like magic, Maka rises, toes curling into the demon's face in the carpet as she stretches, sighing, satisfied, and he tries not to stare, cause they're in a room full of fucking people and he just met her yesterday.

Or was it two days ago?

Time seems so strange in the place-

She leans down, hand outstretched toward him, a grin on her pretty lips and a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

"Dance with me?"

And god almighty, he wants to so fucking bad but _they're in a room full of fucking people, most of which they just met today._

**Fuck.**

Her lower lip juts out in a tiny pink pout, and he's a fucking goner.

He takes her hand and he's flooded with her heat, deafened by _her _music, and it's blissful.

She grins at him and tells all the others to get off their asses and get some music going, this damn party is more like a wake! And some of them grumble, but most of them agree enthusiastically. Kim pulls Jackie to her feet and kisses her deeply, the dark haired girl's ears flaming and the other girl's cheeks flushing until they match her hair. He quickly averts his eyes; it is their moment after all, but he can't help the warm feeling that fills his chest, the hope that it gives him.

Maka's lips brush his jaw when she stands on her toes to whisper, "Pretend it's just us."

He laughs a little shakily, swallows hard, looking down into her eyes, "Notttt sure that would be the best idea, but uhm, I'll try?"

And oh fuck, he could swear he feels her lips on his cheek, if only for a nanosecond, then she turns to Kid and calls out, "Hit it, maestro, we're not dead yet!"

He flicks on a stereo, and Soul wonders out loud this time, "Where the _fuck_ does all this stuff come from?!"

Kid just grins, sets the music to something with groove to it and says, "A gift from an old friend called Eibon."

And then the volume is loud enough to reset his wavelength, reset them all to the same frequency, and he sees Kilik smiling like an idiot as he takes Liz's hand and pulls her to dance. His touch does not harm her, and Soul thinks that maybe music is a bit more important to more people than he ever really understood.

Maka's slender, strong hands curve around his shoulders, her fingers rubbing at knots that aren't actually there, but he's not gonna stop her, no way. His hands settle on her waist, in an area that he hopes is neutral and respectful, but still feels absolutely _incredible _beneath his palms. Her soul remembers the way her muscles undulate in her silken skin while she twists her hips, and he is _so _grateful. Her fingers creep up his neck, slip into his hairline, and he wonders briefly if getting a boner when you actually have no blood flow is even a possibility. He really fucking hopes not, cause the way she's looking into his eyes right now has him so flustered he's not even sure he could speak if he wanted to.

She presses closer, her cheek to his chest, and she says just loudly enough for him to hear, "It's funny, I never was a good dancer. Always out of time with the music. I think you bring it out of me."

God almighty, she's gorgeous.

"I-is that so?"

"Mm. Something about you is a little… untamed?"

He huffs out a quiet incredulous laugh, because that's probably the last word he would _ever _expect to be used to describe him, but he's positive she's toying with him, and he thinks he'd kind of like to go with it, because it's her and he's already in too deep.

"Does that scare you?" he asks, his voice low.

She takes a deep breath, one that presses her ribs against his arms and her chest against his, and Jesus Christ her nails graze his scalp in a way that makes him shudder. She smiles, eyes dark and lips so, _so pink_, and what she says nearly makes him implode.

"Not even a little, Snowflake."

Fuck.

He's hers now.

* * *

><p>They wind down a little later, mingling a bit more and bullshitting, and it's while he and Maka are talking to Kilik about how he got here (an altercation with another student who was trying to beat up a freshman gone wrong) that everything goes to hell. Crona looks like they're having a fucking seizure, their body arching and twisting, and it's absolutely <em>terrifying<em>, but it's over as soon as it had started, and Crona is back on their feet but-

Their eyes are a hollow, pale ice colour, pupils pinned and smile bordering on deranged. It's the first time Soul sees the kid smile since he's gotten to this place, and it's scary as hell.

Kilik seems to sense the danger, mutters, "Fuck, the twins," and he's up the stairs fast as lightning.

But Maka? Maka must've talked to this kid, must've liked them, 'cause she's moving toward them with her arms outstretched and Soul is-

Paralyzed.

Her voice sounds so far away.

"Crona, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

The voice that comes from them is twisted, inhuman, layered and echoing and so chaotic it makes Soul's head _ache._

"Ahhhhahaha, okay? Nothing is okay how could we be okay?!"

...We?

Tears stream from their icy eyes, their grin now a grimace, and Soul sees the kid mouth 'help me' to Maka.

Maka being who she is, doesn't give a fuck about the danger when it comes to someone she cares about, just keeps on forward toward Crona, looking to reason with insanity, like only the most idiotic idealists would do. He doesn't know what will come of this, but he is absolutely certain it will be nothing good.

He inspects those cold, weeping eyes again, until the pupils blow wide and the eyes go dark, and he can see the pleading in them, can see the fight going on, but against what or who, he has no idea.

Then those pupils turn to slits, and Soul finally finds his feet to run toward Maka and pull her back. It feels like she might slap him, or scream at him, or _something,_ but Crona grins woefully, and snakes appear at their feet, twisting themselves around Crona's ankles, some slithering toward the others threateningly, fangs bared. Soul shoves Maka further behind him, and in his periphery, he can see Reapers charging Crona, but they all seem _so damn far away. _The flames from Kim and Jackie aren't even lukewarm. Blake and Tsubaki aren't even visible. Liz and Patti try to direct their aggressive wavelengths at Crona, but Kid pulls them back from the scene, as if he already knows this is a lost cause, this _person _is a lost cause and they cannot help or harm or _do _anything.

It's all so surreal.

Crona, the _real _Crona, whimpers, "Forgive me."

Then he sees Maka, dead and cold, venom coagulating in her veins just before him, and it feels like his chest has been torn open, his lungs crushed by the abject sorrow that slams into him like a freight train. Maka is behind him, she's right behind him, he _knows,_ he made sure of it, but he can't _feel _her anymore, her wavelength is gone, her music gone, his limbs numb. How could this happen, how is this even possible?

He knew he would fail her, _but not like this. _He wishes he could just have her here so he could disappoint her, make her hate him with that glorious, vivacious passion of hers, but she's _gone and it's his fault._

The serpents slither over her covetously, and his sorrow morphs to rage, malignant and overwhelming. He wants to tear them to pieces, drink their blood, render them lifeless with his own fangs, he wants them dead, he wants their master dead, _he wants to bring them to their __**ruin-**_

There's a flash of light and a deafening crack of thunder, and Harvey comes into view, looking shaken and irritated, but determined, sparks flicking off his fingertips and snapping ominously. Crona lies on the floor convulsing, all serpents turning to black ash and dissipating into the night.

The Maka in front of him is gone, and the real Maka clings to his hand, distraught but haze of hatred and madness clears when he pulls her into his arms. He hates that seeing her eyes filled with tears is a relief, but at least they aren't cold and lifeless.

He will do _anything _to never have to see her that way again.

* * *

><p>Harvey and Ox are left in charge of taking Crona far from Kid's home. They aren't permitted to extinguish the poor, twisted soul, nor take them prisoner, as Crona obviously wasn't themselves when attacking, and therefore do not offer enough reason to Reap them.<p>

Soul sees the uneasiness on Harvey's face. A storm rages outside, the _**flashbang**_ so very close to them that even Soul is unsettled, but if Kid notices the discomfort, he disregards it. The most capable are left to the dirty work, of course. In that way, this realm isn't much different than the one they all came from.

It's sickening, but Soul understands.

What he doesn't understand is the way Maka is left absolutely beside herself with grief when Crona is taken away. He is wise enough to not voice it aloud, but she already knows what he's thinking before he does it seems.

"Crona is such a pure soul, I-i know it, I _saw _it I just - I just can't - there's _something else _that has twisted them up inside but I don't know what it is so I can't help and I'm just - I'm so _useless.._."

He knows the feeling all too well.

He also knows well enough that she won't be giving up on Crona. It's an admirable thing, but incredibly unwise for someone so smart, he thinks. She really is something else.

_What a piece of work._

It's probably perilous to associate with her, with any of the people he's met at this so-called party, but he's pretty sure that he just doesn't give a shit anymore, which - as sad as it is - is actually progress for him.

He thinks that she's done talking about the incident, but with a shaky hiccup and a big breath, she quietly asks him, "D-did you see it?"

He is immediately on guard, hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, prickling uncomfortably.

"What are you talking about?"

Her arms wrap around herself protectively, nails biting into her forearms. He wants to uncurl her fingers, let her nails bite into his hands instead, but he just waits for her to respond.

"Did you see yourself dead?"

He clenches his jaw at the memory of what had been forced into his mind, of her lifeless body, of her eerily dark veins.

"No," he says, seeking out her eyes, "I saw _you _dead."

She doesn't ask him anything else after that, and for once he's glad for her silence.

* * *

><p>Kid took the liberty of rearranging the realm so Crona would not find their way back to the Reaper basecamp (another gift inherited from Eibon, he said). Soul feels guilty for the helplessness the kid must feel, alone with only their thoughts in a world like this.<p>

Outside of them is quiet, but inside it's so very loud.

It's concerning that he can empathize with someone who went loony and tried to attack him and their friends using psychological warfare, but he tries not to dwell on it, pushes it to the back of his mind where all thoughts like that are banished; he isn't crazy, just fucked up.

He thinks?

He hopes.

Maka squeezes his hand, then releases him to go talk to Kid about what had happened, maybe find some clarity on what possibly could have brought on such a dissociative fit.

Kilik doesn't reappear until Crona is long gone, a brat clinging to each of his hands, no older than twelve in appearance, their pale eyes and hair in stark contrast to their dark skin. He can tell from their expressions that they're frightened, but they don't speak a word or even let out a tear, just grasp at Kilik's hands so tightly that it looks almost painful. The boy stares at Soul intently, but the girl's gaze flits all around, looking at anything but Soul. He can't really blame her for that one.

Kilik kneels down, pulls a little notebook and pen out of his pocket and starts writing. All he jots down on the page is,

**That's Soul. He's alright.**

Soul gives him a questioning look.

Kilik holds up a hand, "Just a sec man."

Then he writes on the next page,

**Can I tell him about you guys?**

The twins glance at each other for just a moment, then at Kilik, nodding in unison, and maybe in the Shining the whole twin shit was creepy as fuckall, but these two are kind of... endearing. Their light eyes don't look hollow the way Crona's had as they broke down. They look full of emotion, and information, and he wishes they would speak.

But he swears if one of them starts writing 'redrum' all over the place, he's taking Maka and fucking _booking it._

Kilik smiles both children affectionately, then scribbles down quickly,

**Are you sure you don't want to tell him yourselves?**

The boy rolls his eyes and grabs the notebook, writing in sloppy print,

**Talk is faster use ur words.**

Kilik just grins and ruffles the boy's hair fondly. He turns to the girl, his eyes conveying the question, '_is this okay?'_, and she nods in confirmation. With that, he turns to Soul, his grin fading a bit to a more solemn expression, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his bloodied, torn up uniform.

"They're deaf. Too close to some kind of explosion is what they told me. Music can't help them resonate with others. I'm the only person they can even touch without getting burnt to hell. Or shocked or whatever. I mean, wavelengths are vibrations and all so they shouldn't have to _hear _the music to get synced up but, it just seems like nothing ever works. Maybe the music isn't loud enough, or it's just the wrong shit we keep playin' but - yeah."

Soul is stricken with such a painful amount of empathy. He'd rather go blind, rather lose his tongue than have sound taken from him. Unfortunately his response isn't nearly as eloquent as his thoughts, and he feels just the tiniest bit guilty for being sort of glad they can't hear it.

"Shit. That's… _shit_."

Kilik chuckles, though the sound has an undertone of mournfulness.

"Hey now, watch your language."

Both the twins roll their eyes and flip him off, and Soul is confused, which he's starting to think may be his default setting.

"Can they..?"

"Read lips? Yeah, sorta. Well enough to know when people are cussing at least," he laughs a bit more easily at this. The expression on Kilik's face makes Soul's heart hurt.

It reminds him of his big brother. That look of pride and admiration and affection is so familiar, it _hurts._

"Hey dude, you okay? You're not looking so good. Still worried about Crona?"

Soul latches onto the idea, glad for an excuse other than a lame _I miss my bro._

"Yeah. It was, ah. It was f-ahhhmessed up." The twins start giggling, and when Soul gives them a glare they try to sober themselves, saluting him and tossing him a thumbs up with little smirks. Soul holds a hand out for the notepad, but the boy just shakes his head and laughs again. Soul quirks an eyebrow and the boy rolls his eyes, but hands him the pad anyway.

Soul scribbles down as clearly as he can,

**What are your names?**

This time the girl grabs the notepad back, careful not to touch his hand, and Soul wonders why they won't just speak if they had all their lives until now, but he decides it might be in poor taste to ask, so he shuts his mouth and waits.

**Not important since we can't hear you call us anyway. But call me Thunder, and call him Fire. It's how we're known.**

He doesn't ask why they use such strange names. His name is Soul after all, he has no room to talk, so he just nods and smiles. Thunder flips the page and writes,

**I like your teeth they're cool.**

His first reaction at the mention of them is to pull his lips together tightly, but he stops himself and bares them in a grin, at which she smiles widely as her cheeks darken. Soul glances up at Kilik, but he just shrugs.

"She has a crush on anyone who takes the time to talk to her, don't worry too much about it dude."

Thunder growls at Kilik and punches his shoulder, angrily mouthing what looks like, '_I saw that!_' at him before he laughs and pulls her into a hug (a sentimental moment which he promptly ruins with the most heinous of noogies). Soul is once again reminded of Wes, but ignores the pang of loss that spikes him through the chest in favour of looking at anything in the room other than the people inhabiting it.

Kilik's voice pulls him from his trance abruptly, his voice seemingly genuinely curious when he asks, "So dude, you and Maka gettin' it on?"

Soul chokes, mystified by how everyone is so fucking _open about everything, what the hell? _He dodges,

"What is this the 70's? Who even says that anymore?"

But Kilik is perceptive and not taking any of Soul's bullshit.

"Youuuu're avoiding the question. You're totally stuffin' her muffin. Am I right? I'm totally right."

Soul's brain almost short circuits, a mess of flashing images that involve Maka and banana nut muffins and a frilly apron, and he decides right then that he really is in hell.

"Dude, did you ask Kid for a book of awful euphemisms or something? I swear to god I'm gonna pay someone off to pour bleach on my brain. Is it even _possible _to 'get it on' in this realm?"

Kilik snorts, "I think Kim and Jackie can answer that question if you're brave enough to ask."

Soul groans, "That's nobody's business but theirs. God, you guys have no sense of privacy."

"Alright alright cool it, I'm just bustin your balls. It's just, ah… time is a valuable thing. And obviously you never know when it'll just run out. The hell is the use in wasting it when you already know that something feels right?"

Soul is silent for a few long seconds, then takes a deep, steadying breath and asks, "Do any of you even know the definition of smalltalk? Seriously."

Kilik chuckles goodnaturedly, "Pshhh fuck off, what's the point? I've had a lot of quiet time to think. More than most probably. If I've figured out anything at all that might help you get your head out of your ass faster, I'm damn well gonna tell you. Here, gimme a sec."

He crouches down slightly so that he's looking up at the kids, and Soul can't help but admire the care that Kilik takes in making sure that they know he cares and doesn't think that they are less than others just because they are younger.

Kilik takes the notepad and scribbles down,

**Bedtime**

And both twins shake their heads stubbornly, but Fire is yawning and Thunder's eyelids droop, and Kilik just rolls his eyes, taking them each by the hand and starts to lead them up the stairs.

"Be back in a bit, these two have permanent dimensional jet-lag."

"Aren't they a little old for that? Getting tucked in I mean?"

He hates how much he sounds like his father when he says it, but Kilik just shrugs.

"Never too old to get tucked in by someone who loves you, I figure."

And then he's gone, with the kids in tow, up and through.

The room feels a lot bigger, a lot colder, a lot more oppressive when he's alone. Kilik's words ring in his mind, and he tries to remember the last time he was tucked in, but he can't, and he hates hates _hates _the fact that it actually hurts to realize. He's sure his mother used to sing to him. Surely his father read to him? Or was that just something he'd seen in a movie? Wes used to make shadow puppets on the wall before bed, but after Soul turned seven he got his own room, which really just meant he had to deal with the monsters under the bed alone.

Not that he would ever complain. People who complain aren't equipped to deal with the real world. Amazing that he could simultaneously be the most spoiled, yet most neglected rich kid in the neighborhood.

Or maybe he's just overly sensitive.

Kilik doesn't give him much time to wallow in self-pity, and for that he's extremely grateful.

"They sleeping?"

"Yeah, they conked out pretty quick. Stress makes them tired. Hey, Soul."

"Yeah?"

Kilik's expression grows grave.

"You take that girl and you get yourselves home while you still got a chance. You give her your number so you can find her when you get out, but you _get out._"

"I- I don'-"

"Listen, I stayed here for those kids, I had my reasons not to go back, and for all I know, you do too. But this is no place for a soul like Maka's. As fucked up as it is, those people you met tonight at this party? That's the best and strongest this damn realm has to offer. We're it. The rest are leeches and cowards, and they will drain her until there's _nothing _left. So you do whatever you have to, but you make sure she gets out of here."

Soul frowns, because it's all truth, and he already sort of knew it subconsciously, but having Kilik bring it to his attention is, well…

It fucking sucks. But still.

"That was the plan from the start."

Kilik smiles fondly. "Wouldn't expect anything less bro."

"Hey," Soul stops Kilik when he turns to retreat for the night, and he feels like an idiot when Kilik turns to look at him curiously, but he continues," ah - thanks."

Now Kilik looks confused.

"Uh, you're welcome dude but - thanks for what?"

"The advice and the faith."

Soul doesn't know if Kilik is surprised by the gratitude, or the way Soul isn't ever expecting confidence in his humanity and strength of character, but either way, it's like a punch in the gut.

* * *

><p>When Maka returns a while later looking slightly flustered and wide-eyed, he assumes that she's had a very similar conversation with Tsubaki as he had with Kilik (the part about getting it on, not the heavy shit), but takes the high road and doesn't pester her about it. She comes to stand beside him, hardly inches away, but they both flounder around awkwardly; the time spent away from each other makes them unsure of how to act, their fingers brushing tentatively.<p>

Kilik rolls his eyes and bids them a good night, leaving them alone.

When she finally laces her fingers with Soul's, it feels like a noose has been removed from his throat. The amount of relief it brings him is somewhat alarming.

"Everyone is sleeping already, but Tsubaki said there's an extra room through the trapdoor under th-"

He interrupts,"The demon, yeah, I know where it is."

Her response to this leaves him feeling cold.

"Huh? Demon?"

_Fuck._

"I ah- nevermind. I know what you're talking about though."

He releases her hand reluctantly to approach that god forsaken Rorschach carpet, pulling it away from the trapdoor and yanking it open. It's dark, so dark that he's reminded of that distinct feeling of nausea that comes with the dread of all that can hide in the shadows. Maka had been right; night may be quiet, day may be harsh, but lies are harder to hide in the blaring sunlight, something that frightens him in regards to himself but he appreciates in regards to all he comes across.

Everyone always likes to say that the fear of the unknown is what makes the dark so frightening; one never knows what will greet him as he ventures into it.

But **he** _always _knows what to expect, and it never makes it any less frightening, just makes him sick with fear longer than necessary.

He realizes he's been standing at the entrance for too long when she clamps a hand down on his shoulder. When he looks to her to apologize, he's struck dumb by the intensity of her expression as she glares at the carpet, brow furrowed and lips curled into a thoughtful frown. He wants to ask if she's alright, but before he can even manage a syllable, she mumbles something so quietly he can hardly hear. He asks, like the eloquent young man he was raised to be,

"Huh?"

She just sighs, looks up with an expression he can't quite place. It almost looks like concern.

"I said, I see it now. The demon."

Oh.

"I'm sorry."

He really is.

"I'm not."

He knows. That's what worries him.

* * *

><p>She ends up entering the room first. He's shamefully thankful for her bravery. An eerie glow shines down onto her, illuminating her eyes, and her gaze steadies his uncertain steps as he lowers himself into the room beside her. Her hand is already outstretched for him when his feet touch the floor, a small consolation in the overwhelming feeling of dread that's got a chokehold on him. She exudes music, sweet sounds of a music box that a parent might wind up for their child before bed.<p>

He's just a kid again, frightened by shadows and consoled by the sounds and touch of an angel.

There only item in the entire room is a large bed with black covers, and though they've slept in close proximity before, for some reason this feels far more intimate, and so, _so _very awkward. He glances at her, and notices a little furrow in her brow.

He doesn't want to be the cause of her distress.

"Toss me a pillow? I'll take the floo-"

"N-no, there's plenty of room for both of us and then some. I'll ah, I'll take the right side?"

He nods, and remembers something, chuckling to himself, causing her to look at him questioningly.

"I dunno where I heard it, but apparently the word sinister is derived from the Latin word sinestra. All it means is left. Funny. I used to write with my left hand. They said people who wrote with their left hand had been touched by the devil."

She gives him a sympathetic look, but he can see it's tinged with anger for the 'they' he spoke of, and he kind of loves it.

"'They' who?"

He doesn't know why suddenly it feels too personal to explain, but it does, and he hates himself for it, so he tells her a half truth and swallows the feeling of guilt that comes with the poisonous words dripping from his tongue.

"Ah, old teachers. I used to go to a private Catholic school. Let me tell you, Jackie wasn't out of line at all, if her school was anything like mine had been."

He doesn't tell her how they had shrieked at him, called him devil spawn, slapped his knuckles if ever they caught him writing lefty, and how when he told his parents, _they didn't believe him._

She touches his shoulder, her eyes holding such a soft, accepting expression that it hurts. He can't help it, he tells her more because no matter how much scorn he's held for the world, he's always wished he could be a part of it, share anything, with anyone, and not be shot down.

If anyone would understand, it would be her.

So...

"When I was twelve, after I got expelled from that school and ended up in the public school, I tried again to write with my left hand. It was like I had never stopped. And you know what? I felt like a failure. I felt like they had been right all along."

She seems to take a moment to absorb the information, but once she has, she nudges him in the stomach, cracking a small smile before she says,"Well… then let's be left, together."

How could he _not _laugh at that?

"Oh my _God,_ Maka. That was so fucking cheesy."

But he lets her pull him down onto the bed all the same, both of them still chuckling quietly as she curls up on the left side of it and pats the little space beside her, leaving the other side of the mattress untouched. They lay shoulder to shoulder, now quiet, staring up at the ceiling that seems so kindred with a black hole, hungry and empty and magnetic.

Soul doesn't get it. Why does she trust in him so deeply? All the other, '_wiser' _people in his live have never placed such confidence upon him in all his life; is she brave, or foolish to trust him?

He doesn't ask though, 'cause he's afraid if he asks, she'll stop, and he knows the whole point of being in this place is to conquer those fears, but there's just too much too lose.

She nudges him gently, "You tired?"

He scoffs.

"Nah."

"You think maybe you ah... want to give it a try? Facing a nightmare, I mean!"

He takes a moment to appreciate the lovely pink glow to her cheeks before he actually addresses the question.

Reluctantly.

The first one that comes to mind has been so frequent from the time he was a child that it's legitimately embarrassing. He really doesn't want to show her this shit right now. They've had such a long night already, and he doesn't want to sleep, but he doesn't want to do this either.

Why couldn't they just bump shoulders and stare at the fucking ceiling until sleep finally found them?

But she's already faced more than one of her fears now, and he doesn't want to be the thing that holds her back, doesn't want to be the one to get her stuck in this perpetual inbetween of avoidance and subconsciousness.

That would just be a dick move on his part, honestly.

She turns to her side to face him, her cheek resting on his shoulder. Her music is quiet and strangely apologetic, but steadfast in its inquisition. It strengthens his resolve.

"Alright, I'll try. You'll be with me, yeah?"

"You know it."

"Okay."

He doesn't initiate resonance though, not for this.

She doesn't deserve to experience this one firsthand.

He's seven again, rehearsing scales, palms clammy, sweat dripping down the bridge of his nose, collecting there ominously, the drop getting larger and larger, and he cringes as the surface tension breaks, sweat splattering over the ivory keys. Things get blurry as his eyes well with tears of frustration and knowledge when his pinky finger slips off a key, the mistake ringing harshly in his ears, blatant in its defiance.

His instructor melts into his periphery from the shadows, a demon in a fancy suit that looks eerily like the one his father has always worn for the most important of events. His eyes are black, darker than the polished piano that mocks Soul so, and he tries not to shiver when the demon leans down, foul breath ghosting over Soul's neck as he takes hold of Soul's little finger, the one that betrayed him in his time of need, and sings,

"Thiiiis wittle piggy went to the **market.**"

Soul's finger snaps backward in the demon's grip, but he doesn't scream, not for this.

Not for _him._

He can taste the blood welling from his wounded, bound tongue, like he can taste electric storms coming, bitter and exhilarating, raising the hairs on the back of his neck.

The demon fists a hand in his hair, nails jagged and scornful, chuckling in Soul's other ear now,

"Ohhh Soulie, what's the point in trying _so damn hard? _For what? For _**who? **_It certainly isn't for youuu. Nobody purposely puts themselves through this much pain, not even masochists like _you._ Play something for yourself, boy. Quit your suffering."

His child self is stupidly stubborn, desperate to perfect those scales, _dying _to get them _just so;_ Mom and Dad would be so proud if he could just get _something __**right.**_

It sickens him to realize that hardly anything has changed since then.

He can hardly see through the tears, and his ring finger slips from the A flat to the G.

"Tsk tsk. I'm really trying to help you kiddo. Why won't you let me? I only have the purest of intentions!"

And it's awful, because if he ignores the way the message is conveyed, he realizes that it's true. It would be the perfect solution, but hearing the words falling from a sharp tongue, seeing them shining in otherwise empty eyes makes him spiteful. He doesn't want to listen to this demon.

Because when Soul looks at the thing, he sees himself, selfish and snide and so eager to disappoint.

"Glutton for punishment. You really ought to work on that."

Soul braces himself for another snap, another failure, another thing to remind him of his perpetual state of abysmal mediocrity.

He hears her like a hymn, calling out to him to save him from the sins of his egotistical, fragile, overcompensating heart.

"Stop."

When he looks up from the keys, he sees the reflection of his seventeen year old self, Maka beside him, her palm on the back of his neck evaporating the grimy feeling of filth and failure.

"You have nothing to prove to anyone but yourself. What do _you_ want?"

His tongue feels too large for his mouth, clumsy and entirely too honest for his comfort.

"For my parents to be proud."

She sighs, sits beside him on the piano bench, cradling his injured hand in both of hers delicately.

"You don't get to decide how they feel about you. But you do get to decide how _you _feel about you."

He scoffs bitterly, and it burns his throat on the way out, because if ever there was someone who didn't deserve his snark, it'd be Maka, but it's just reflex at this point, ingrained so deeply within him he's unsure if he can change it.

"You sound like a self-help book."

She shrugs, "Well I've read enough of them so it makes sense. A lot of them are full of nonsense, you know, but sometimes you find stuff that actually makes sense in there."

He's silent for a long time, contemplating her words, left hand mimicking a bit of her melody absently as she fiddles with his other hand. She startles him to a stop when she tells him that it's beautiful, and he wants to say that the only reason it could possibly be such is because it's _her _but he doesn't, because he knows that would mean that this nightmare has remained undefeated, left for another time, and she would know. He'll come back on his own, avoid the shame of it.

For now, he'd like to sleep.

As soon as he has the thought, the piano and bench melt away, and he and Maka are curled up in bed again. His hand is fine now, but there's an overwhelming feeling of shame that comes with his cowardice, heavy like a bellyful of steel. He feels like a worn out sock stuffed with quarters, his elastic overworked and tired out, sagging with burdens that mean next to nothing individually, but once collected take a serious toll.

Who knew courageousness could be _so fucking tiring._

She sighs deeply, as if she's just as tired from this excursion as he.

"That seemed awful."

He laughs bitterly, "Well nothing new there."

She nudges him, still staring at the ceiling.

"Why do you care so much?"

"What do you mean?"

She turns toward him, her eyes dark.

"About approval. I mean, your parents disapproving wouldn't be the end of the world. It's just an obstacle, but you could overcome it."

"Pff. Easy for you to say."

Her lips turn down in a snarl, and it feels like he's been electrocuted with the sheer strength of her negative emotions. Her music is wild and fierce, and it's beautiful, but he hates that he _knows _it has come from a terrible place.

"How would you know?"

Aw _fuck._

"I wouldn't I just - urgh, I dunno. There's something about my parents that just… commands respect. Or obedience. I dunno if I can tell the difference anymore. Maybe I never could."

It hurts him more than it should when her eyes gain a depth of knowledge. She understands his plight, if only a little, and it fucking sucks.

She doesn't say anything, and he fidgets awkwardly, continuing, "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing," she sighs, leaning into him more deeply, "In this case, you have nothing to be sorry for. Trust me, if you did, I'd be the first to let you know."

Now _that_, he has the utmost confidence in. She's not the type to let others trample all over her.

He hopes he can learn this skill from her, learn how to stand on his own and not fear that the weight of the expectations of the world will shatter him.

"Thanks Maka."

"Don't thank me for truth."

He sinks deeper into the fluffy covers of their bed, tugging at his hair, exasperated. His thoughts leak out before he can stop them, and he just doesn't care anymore.

"God, this is lame. I can't even face a dumb nightmare. What the hell is the real world gonna do to me when I have to actually be a part of it? I'm so fucked."

For some reason, it feels a little better to tell someone, to say it out loud and share it, even if it's selfish of him to push his own issues upon her. He likes her. He shouldn't whine. If he whines too much, she might leave, and he really doesn't want that.

"What goes on in your own mind is a lot harder to deal with than what goes on in the outside world. Being scared doesn't make you weak. Everyone is scared of something. The only time you've failed, _become _a coward, is when you stop trying. So keep trying, okay? And I'll try with you."

She's so steadfast, so solid, he just doesn't understand it. Even when she's terrified, she is steady in her courage. Admirable.

So admirable.

"Hey, Soul?"

"Hm?"

"I want to help them."

"Huh?"

She sits up and stares down at him, her gaze so intense it pushes him further into the cushion, the weight heavy on his chest.

"I want to help everyone, the Reapers, I want to help them reign in the nightmares that have gone too far and the souls that use them like puppets. At least until we get out of here ourselves."

He snorts, reaching over to ruffle her hair,

"Overachiever. I knew you'd be nothin' but trouble."

She swats his hand away from her hair, only to grip it in both of her own. She grins, eyes alight with excitement. "Does that mean you're in?"

He closes his eyes, imagines going on alone while she fights alongside of their new friends without him, fighting for those who have no means to fight for themselves while he struggles to find his way back to a world he still doesn't know how to deal with.

The idea of it is so unappealing.

He supposes there are worse ways spend his time.

"Yeah. Whatever you wanna do, I'm in."

She squeezes his hand, leans toward him and brushes his bangs back from his eyes so she can actually look at him properly.

"Hey, you know this'll be dangerous."

"That's why I gotta come with you."

"I can protect myself."

"I know that. I'll just be there for backup, yeah? For when your clumsy ass messes up."

He grins when she smacks his arm, poking at her side. She huffs indignantly, "I'm not clumsy, you dolt, you are. You almost fell off the balcony when I went up to see you. Not that anything all that awful would have happened, but still."

"Hey you scared the shit out of me. I didn't think anyone would find me."

"I could feel that you were stressed. And Harv ratted you out. Aren't you glad he did?"

Yeah, maybe he is, just a little, with her pressed up against him and radiating notes of acceptance and mild annoyance. He hates himself for loving her presence so much, but it's alright.

Maybe if they get outta this place they really can go on a date. He'll make a reservation for a fancy restaurant and dress up for her and everything.

"I am glad. Hey, can I ask you something?"

"Mm?"

"How did you end up here?"

She goes rigid, her music halting abruptly, temporarily at a loss for words. He almost rescinds his inquiry, but it's been bothering him for a while. Everyone they met tonight had such awful ways of ending up here, when all that had happened to him was a dumb dream. He wants to know that she actually has something good to go back to before he delivers her back into another unknown.

"I- ah. I was dreaming, but my eyes were open. I didn't like what I saw."

He waits for her to continue, but she doesn't, just closes her eyes and sighs deeply. He feels like a prick for pestering her, but he can't help it, he's curious, and her vagueness pisses him off a little.

"What'd you see?"

"Nothing I want to think about right now. Can we just sleep? Tomorrow I have to ask Kid if there's anything we can do to help. Things are going to start getting crazy around here soon."

He snorts, amused but agitated, "As if they weren't fucking batshit already. Whatever. Night."

He's a petulant little child, he fucking knows it, but he turns his back to her anyway, tucking a pillow under his head and trying to get comfortable, though the feeling of guilt in his stomach makes it impossible. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but he is overwhelmingly disappointed when she mimics him, her back turned and her posture closed off.

He can't hear her music now.

The silence tells him more than he'd care to know.


	4. Part 4

Note: I own nothing but my own thoughts, dreams, and ideas. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Somehow in the middle of the night they gravitated towards each other again, and when he wakes, she's studying him curiously. He cocks an eyebrow in question, and her face turns a dark shade of pink.<p>

"Y-you've got freckles. On your eyelids."

Seems going to bed angry doesn't always lead to an unhappy morning.

God, that makes it sound like they're married.

Why was she watching him sleep?

Does she like his freckles?

Instead of saying any of these things though, he just dumbly blurts,

"Oh."

Patti saves him, ironically enough, calling down through the trapdoor, shouting at the 'lovebirds' to 'wake the fuck up' 'cause apparently it's 'time to get down 'n' dirty'. Whatever she means by _that._

Maka is first to roll out of bed, stretching languidly, almost catlike, before walking over to his side to drag him out of the comfort. He groans dramatically, but she just flicks his forehead, grinning when he yelps.

He resists the urge to call her a cock, but only barely.

"Cmon, you bum, it's our first day as Reapers! Get a move on or all the good weaponry will be taken!"

"...Weapons?"

She smirks. "You'll see."

She's glowing with glee and a little mischief, and he swears she's gonna be the end of him, but he doesn't even care anymore.

She tugs him along with her, through the main room and back outside, which he's shocked to find is covered in a fine dusting of snow; the are trees skeletal and silent, glistening with ice that locks their bones and weakens their limbs.

He wants to retreat back inside, away from the eerie quiet of a world frozen stiff and littered with stagnating souls, but the look of joy and absolute wonderment on Maka's face seems to breathe life back into their surroundings. He hadn't realized he felt cold until she turns back to smile at him, and then he's _melting._

It's so, _so _**lame.**

They meet up with a few of the others in a small clearing by a shed. No one seems concerned by the fact that half of the Reapers are missing. The ones in the field all wield various, strange looking weapons, groggily complaining about Kid's choice of scenery. Maybe since they've been here longer, they're truly affected by the cold. It must suck to have stiff joints while trying to kick ass.

Kid strolls out of the shed with a giant black and red scythe, and now Soul realizes why he and Maka had such an awful time of finding that damned thing by the river. Meddling bastard makes everything difficult without even trying.

Kid solidifies Soul's opinion when he calls out to everyone, "Seasons give structure to an otherwise intangible existence. If you walk far enough in any direction from here, I'm certain you'll find a climate you feel is more suitable, but for now, you'll just have to tolerate it. This is the zone we'll be clearing out today."

Kim groans and sinks to the ground, setting her strange looking weapon beside her with the kind of care one would use to lay down a lover. Soul is a little weirded out.

But then she just flops back to make a snow angel, and her weapon starts to glow menacingly, as if alive, and it's then he realizes that _oh, it is._

Sort of.

He's an idiot.

Anything can be used as a golem apparently. Even weird ass lanterns that look like they were stolen from a train in the 20's.

Jackie emerges from the lantern with a frustrated sigh, and Soul nearly trips over his heels trying to _back the fuck up cause oh god, she's on fire again. _Saying she looks disgruntled would be the understatement of the year. Her hands sizzle when the snowflakes land on her skin, a puddle of melted snowfall forming around her feet.

Kim whines, "Aw babe, you ruined my snow angel!"

Soul tries not to think of the smell of burning feathers, of how Maka had hurtled to the earth, wings clipped and dreams turned. This is cute, what's happening now. A couple arguing, it's so normal.

He focuses on that instead.

Jackie splutters, smoke puffing out of her nose as she huffs, "Yeah? Well that little creep Crona ruined our day off!"

"Hey now, not my fault that the kid was a loon. 'Sides, promise I'll make it up to you later."

Kim gives Jackie a saucy grin, wiggling her eyebrows, and a few more feet of snow melt back from where Jackie stands, face steaming and hair aflame.

Soul looks away from what _he _thinks should be a **private **exchange, only to see a snowball hurtling towards his face. He instinctively braces for impact (he's still not quite used to the concept of tangible intangiblility), but of course it never comes. Instead he hears a sloshy smack, then a crackling pop.

With the caution of someone who has spent their entire life balancing on a blade's edge, Soul turns to see where the snowball (which apparently Patti had thrown, go figure) has connected, and he sees Harvey, hair standing on end like a frightened cat, scarred face covered in slush.

His split eyebrow twitches comically, fingertips sparking, but he simply wipes the snow off his face, flicking it aside with a flourish, ignoring the muffled giggling coming from a few of them and the outright cackling coming from Kim and Patti.

"Thanks for the pick-me-up Pat," Harvey deadpans, shaking the slush out of his hair, "better than coffee, really." Patti winks and blows him a kiss, which he catches and hands back to Ox, who smiles sheepishly, tucking it in his back pocket. Harvey gives her a look that Soul is absolutely _positive _was meant to be private, and he idly wonders if everyone here is not-so-secretly banging.

He guesses it must get boring when they're not out Reaping. Screwing is a good way to pass their supposedly limitless time.

Though, he wouldn't know personally.

Soul is pulled from his shameful daydreaming when Kid clears his throat, somehow having the good grace to only look mildly uncomfortable, and beckons everyone to form a semicircle around the opening of the shed.

"First off, has anyone seen Blake and Tsubaki?"

Ox grimaces.

"They're ah. Just freshening up."

Kid's nose wrinkles in distaste, and he asks no further questions.

"Alright, we'll move on without them for the time being. I know the majority of you are well acquainted with how things operate here, but Soul and Maka need to be informed. Shall I drone on about it, or would you rather train them yoursel-"

Several of the group call out, shouts of "We got this!" and "Stuff it already!" echoing through the clearing. Kid puts up his unoccupied hand in surrender, a smile tugging at his lips. He approaches Maka, scythe still propped on a shoulder (which looks incredibly uncomfortable, if Soul is honest), and places the giant tool beside her, ignoring the look of shock on her face.

"Tsubaki tells me that you're adept at ah, what was it - yes, 'fucking shit up with sticks,' so I figured this weapon would suit you well."

Soul is almost too absorbed in the hilarity of Kid cussing to notice the elated grin on Maka's face, but her music blares in his head, inspired and excited.

Then he realizes the implications of Maka wielding such a weapon.

_Fuck._

"Wait wait hold up, so… I'm supposed to be in that weapon while she swings it around?"

"Exactly right, good deduction skills Soul, A plus."

"Don't be a prick, isn't that dangerous?"

Kid's smug smile drops.

"It is. Would you rather that Maka took your place?"

The low blow connects with the force of a freight train, and Soul nearly chokes on the pain of the idea.

No.

He wouldn't.

Kid's face is twisted into a fierce look of bitterness, and Soul is actually frightened by the intensity of it.

"That's what I thought. Learn your place and learn it well. Someday you may come to appreciate being the shield and sword. I know I would," Kid growls, eyes darkened to a strange shade of amber that screams of bad omens. Soul clenches his jaw and nods. He's not sure what has twisted Kid so thoroughly, but he's sure it's nothing good.

So he swallows down his pride as he is so accustomed to doing, and stores the 'advice' Kid has given him somewhere in the back of his brain, resigning himself to the fact that he'll just have to get over his motion sickness real fucking quick.

It almost gives Soul whiplash, how fast Kid's expression changes from barely contained rage to pleasant politeness.

"Now, as I said, our collective mission today is to clear this area of corrupted souls and whatever nightmares they've harnessed to torment others, but there's another thing you should be on the lookout for. The Enchanter has been more active recently, it seems, and quite frankly, I've gotten rather tired of it. If you see the man with the metal face, strike him down before he sees you, or retreat after reconnaissance, but whatever any of you do, do not face him on your own. He will _end_ you."

Soul really, _really _doesn't like the sound of this Enchanter dude at all, but it seems like Kid's disclaimer just adds to the fire in Maka's heart. He's almost positive that she's gonna try to make him search for this guy with her, but he has to draw a line in the sand somewhere. He won't risk both their (presumably) eternal souls for a place they're trying to escape. No way in hell.

And a man with a metal face? How is that even possible?

On second thought, maybe he should **remember** to _forget _logic until they find their way home.

Kid nods respectfully to everyone in the group just as Tsubaki comes rushing into the clearing, Blake strolling along leisurely behind her, drinking in the new scenery with his arms crossed behind his head, a suspiciously satisfied grin on his face. Tsubaki apologizes profusely to Kid, but he just pats her shoulder in understanding. Soul can't hear their conversation, but he's assuming it's another brief recap of the mission, so he quickly loses interest, instead focusing on Maka, who is stretching her arms, as if pulling a hammy is actually a concern of hers. It's pretty damn funny in its absurdity.

He laughs outright when she tries to pick the scythe up and finds that her hands just distort around it, grasp impossible.

"I think that's kinda part of why I have to possess it Maka. So you can actually pick it up. Heh- guess that'd make it a _**Soul **_Object, huh?"

She scoffs and punches his shoulder, frustration clear on her face. She is obviously eager to go out and _do _something, but he's dragging his feet with good reason.

And fine, sue him; he doesn't really know how the fuck to become one with a scythe.

Luckily Harv and Jackie come over to explain the process to him, something about visualising becoming one with the object, (which admittedly, he first imagines in a **highly** unpleasant way before he adjusts the concept,) and he doesn't really _technically _understand, but he tries it a few times and finds he's gotten the feel for it, which is enough for him for now. It's only their first day, and the likelihood of them actually getting into _real _trouble is slim to none.

He hopes.

When Kid and Tsubaki finish their conversation, Kid addresses the whole group once more.

"Please understand that if you spot Crona, do not under any circumstances approach them. Their fighting style adapts in the cruelest of ways to whatever opponent they may be facing , as I'm sure some of you are aware. If sighted, turn and retreat. Oh, and guys? Please do your best to stick together. The forest seems to enjoy changing of its own volition. Kim, Jackie, you're with Kilik and the twins. Blake and Tsubaki, come with us. Ox, Harvey, you'll be taking Soul and Maka under your wing. Alright, off we go."

Patti happily trots over to Ox and Harvey, giving each a kiss on the cheek, electricity sparking subtly where their skin meets (Soul doesn't miss how Harvey flinches, however slightly), while Liz and Kilik share an inappropriately passionate kiss, and then they're off, arms linked with Kid's as they stride off into the thick, ominous white of the forest. Soul's a little at a loss, because even though plenty of instruction was given, he feels like he's more a colander than a sponge, letting important things slip through the cracks and left feeling and wobbly and unreliable.

Ox and Harv tiredly amble over to Soul and Maka, a lightning-tipped staff propped on Ox's shoulder, and Maka huffs frustratedly. He cocks an eyebrow, the 'what gives, nerdlord' unspoken but heavily implied, and she huffs again before she whines childishly.

"It's no fair! Why can he pick up his weapon without Harvey possessing it? I don't wanna hit people with something **you're **inside of! That's like tossing you into a woodchipper and hoping for the best!"

Soul has to bite back some morbid laughter, and much to his relief, isn't given the chance to answer as Harvey decides that explanations ought to be left up to the knowledgeable.

"The weapon is strengthened by the wavelength Soul gives off and adapts to any skills he might have. His possessing the scythe also makes it possible for you to channel your wavelength as well because of the bond you two have. You're both far safer this way. That's not to say it's foolproof, but it's still better. Not to mention, if you could hold that thing on your own, it would mean that you've become bound to this world, and as I've gathered, that's not really your objective. Sooooo. Ya know. Suck it up."

Soul guffaws, and can't quite avoid the smack in the back of the head from Maka, and though it seems halfhearted at best, he glares at her all the same. She just shrugs, telling him, "There was a thing. A bug thing."

"Lice? You're saying my soul has lice."

"Stranger things have happened. Anyway, I guess Harvey is right." The man in question snorts, amused.

"I usually am."

Maka rolls her eyes.

"Don't get cocky, it doesn't become you."

Harvey smirks, the scarring on his face somehow charming when accompanied by a smile.

"Point taken. Hey Ox, ready?"

Ox nods resolutely, holding out the lightning staff parallel to the ground, and when Harvey places a hand on the staff, he is pulled into the object, his image turning to warped static, disappearing in a flash of light. The end of the staff sparks. Ox looks at it, expression almost apologetic. Soul tries not to dwell on it.

Maka looks at Soul, her music wobbly and off kilter, and he smiles just a little, doing his best to be reassuring without looking like a dope. She shakily mimics Ox's motions from before, and Soul gives her a moment to steady herself, laying a palm on her shoulder.

"You good?" he asks, searching her eyes for that indecision.

All he finds is courage and determination.

"We're good."

And with that, he places a hand on the scythe and becomes one with the weapon, somehow now inside the cool metal golem. His hearing is amplified to the point where it becomes almost painful, and his bones feel rigid and brittle, but strong as steel. Her hands feel strangely warm on his staff, which doesn't really seem to be any particular part of him, more like she's got a grip on the entirety of his soul, which - he realizes with a little chuckle - is exactly what's going on. She breathes deeply through her nose, eyes closed as she centers herself and focuses on their loose bond. Her music becomes more serene the harder she focuses on him, so he does his best to think calm thoughts, safe thoughts, thoughts of them getting the hell outta here and going to meet at the park on Gallows Ave, and she responds. He hums happily to himself. They can totally do this.

She gives him a few experimental twirls and he immediately feels like puking his heart out. He's genuinely glad that it isn't actually a possibility.

"H-hey Makahhahum can you ah, hold off on that please. It's kinda... disorienting. Save the twirling for batons or something. Don't want me to puke on your pretty toenail polish, right?"

"Alright, alright, I get the point, not so much twirling. But to be fair, you couldn't even puke if you wanted to. Sorry to disappoint bud."

"Yeah, just rub it in why don't you. Come on, lets go Reap some stupid jerks."

He can see her face through a strange eye adorning his blade, and her determined little grin sends a tingling through him. She's a warrior in the making and it's beautiful.

She gently leans him against her shoulder as they begin their hunt, following Ox and Harvey into the fog. She keeps close enough to always have them in sight, but not so close that a potential battle could go awry because of proximity. It's strange to see the way the snowfall just passes right through her, as if she weren't there at all. He's glad for it. It means she still has somewhere to go home to, she can still get away from this place when all is said and done.

The further they voyage into the forest, the thicker it seems to get, skeletal trees giving way to ice encrusted evergreens. He supposes that maybe someday he'd like to get a cabin in woods like these, build fires and make Maka hot cocoa, bundle them both up in layers of blankets-

He stops the thought abruptly, embarrassed and feeling like an absolute creep, but when he peers up at Maka, a little smile is tugging at her lips, and her cheeks glow pink. He can tell that she got a vague idea of what he was thinking, and the fact that she hasn't scolded him or called him a weirdo makes his heart swell. He really would like to get out of this place if it meant he could experience things like that with her. He'll gladly suffer through whatever else he must for the sake of seeing her bundled up in his blankets with whipped cream on the tip of her nose.

But none of that will ever happen if he doesn't get his shit together and fight with her, so he has to focus.

Her steps don't even make a sound. It's eerily quiet: the wind at a standstill, fog heavy. At first it's peaceful, but after a long while of continuing on their path, something in the atmosphere shifts ominously. He can't hear any change, or smell one, or see, but he can feel that something is wrong, feel a chill in his bones that sets him on edge.

He keeps his voice low.

"You feel that?"

Maka nods, speeding her steps. They've lost sight of Ox and Harvey through the thick haze, and though Soul is pretty sure Maka can handle herself just fine, he also knows that neither of them have any real idea of what they will have to deal with in this situation. It's not their own minds that they are facing, but the mutated creations of fallen souls, ones with freshly made golems to live in and utilize however they wish.

God almighty, he really hopes there aren't any spiders. Fuck that.

He can feel something malicious, somewhere, but he can't see it, and she can't see it, and she's running now, gripping him in both of her hands so tightly it almost hurts.

Then it feels like the world has been torn inside out, reassembled into something entirely different. They're standing in the middle of a forest of melted, waxlike trees, the colours vibrant and overwhelming, and he feels some sympathy for poor Salvador, because it's disorienting, bordering on maddening. The air is thick with strange aromas, and he wants to hold his breath, but it would make no difference anyway.

Maka sighs deeply, twirling around to see all perspectives available to her. Soul can no longer feel that looming sense of dread, but something is off about this place, and neither of them have any idea as to how to find their way back to Ox and Harv. Hopefully Patti can use that shroom trick again to lead them toward safety by day's end, but that's a long way away.

Maka huffs and sits down abruptly, laying his scythe form over her crossed legs and hiding her face in her hands. He can hardly hear it when she says,

"And what fucking season is this supposed to be, Kid?"

He would laugh if it weren't a legitimately concerning thing. Aesthetically, the place is astounding, like stepping into a work of art and being able to explore its depths. But he feels a little high, and possibly a little paranoid, so he stays within his weapon form, ready for a fight.

But they sit for a long while, and nothing other than the slow bubbling of their environment occurs. It never seems to end; when one tree melts down, another gradually sprouts up beside it. He wonders what would happen if nothing new sprouted up, if it all melted and melted until this place no longer existed, just a floor of colours and a river of ink, a mere memory of what it had been.

They are torn from their false sense of security when a little voice shouts out, desperate and frightened,

"Daddy?! Daddy! I'm done playing hide and seek now, see? I'm right here!"

The girl sounds as if she's on the edge of tears, but Soul doesn't trust it, doesn't trust this world at all. It could be a trap, an illusion, a hallucination to draw them into chaos.

But Maka, bleeding heart that she can be, is immediately on her feet and searching, his form slung over her shoulder as she runs toward the source of the voice. She sprints past molten trees, and he remembers now, why this place exists. This is a place he's created. The melting crayons on the pavement, the waters so dark you could lose your soul in them. He's the one who has gotten them lost.

He doesn't understand why anyone else would be here, though. It's uncomfortable.

It takes him a moment to make the connection. There was a little girl who lived on the outskirts of his neighborhood, in a home far too expensive for a single father working as a security guard. Her name was Angela and her dad loved her very much. They took him away in cuffs one day, took her into the custody of the state, and he never saw either of them again.

Apparently, his subconsciousness still isn't over the horror of it, the injustice of it all. She had been such a happy child, her father so caring. He had been envious.

Then they were gone, both in places he was sure they didn't deserve to be, and he had missed seeing them in the neighborhood. He wonders if the Angela he hears is actually here, or if his guilty conscious is just playing cruel tricks on him. For once, he's really hoping he's just crazy.

"Maka, this could be an illusion set to trap us. Someone might have gotten into my head and made this to manipulate us. Be careful, okay?"

"Wait... so this is from your mind?"

He groans.

"It sure seems like it anyway. That's why I'm worried. Just watch what you do."

She nods solemnly, slowing her steps and raising his form, poised for battle. The river flows silently, black sand of its bank steadily eroding. His throat feels tight, dry as the sand beneath Maka's feet.

_Desperation._

The scenery shifts again, and they're in the barren desert, chilled by the night, and he's been wandering for years, he knows it because he's been here before, so many dreams of being here.

_He's going to die if he doesn't get a sip, he's going to die without a taste, he __**knows**_ _it._

He's out of his golem and running toward an oasis that never seems to get any closer, always just out of reach, and Maka is calling after him, but he just can't quite hear it, just doesn't quite care enough to stop. That oasis, it's so, _so_ close.

_Please, he just needs a taste..._

He is standing above it, staring down to the black water, itching for a sip. He sees the reflection of a madman in the surface, and he knows that if he drinks from here, it may be the end of him, but it doesn't matter anymore. He's just so, _so_ fucking thirsty.

He reaches toward it, cupping his hands to collect some of the liquid. It's thick, though... warm, and dark, and smells like loose change.

The surface looks just like the sky. Maybe if he reaches out, he could touch the stars, caress the moon and taste the universe.

When he falls, he realizes his mistake, realizes that he's going to drown in this, because it's his mind, and his mind has always betrayed him at every turn. He chokes and sputters, but it's like tar, coating his throat, burning him, consuming him as he thought he could consume it.

_Hubris,_ he thinks to himself as the black swallows him up. _I should have known better._

Then he just… lets go, lets out a burning exhale that only the drowning know, then breathes in his prison, accepts that _this is it_. What happens when you die in this place? Where do you go from here?

Should he care?

_Surrender._

It's so peaceful now. So serene.

But there are hands gripping him, pulling him out instead of deeper, and some part of him reminds him that it's a _good _thing, he _needs _to get out, but it still hurts. He just wants to rest.

He's so tired.

He's tugged up and out of the all-consuming black, coughing and sputtering uselessly as he crumples on the shore. Maka is shaking him, shouting at him, beating on his chest, but he just coughs out weak chuckles, laughing at the absurdity of it. His own mind trying to exterminate him. How sweet.

She's in his face now, and she's _livid,_ eyes glowing acidic green and lovely lips pulled back into a snarl. In all his loopiness and hysteria, something tells him he wishes he could taste her anger.

"Soul what the FUCK?!"

He's still dazed, admiring the fire in her eyes and the flush in her cheeks.

"I wuz thirstyyyy, fuck, so thirsty. I thought I was gonna die. But like, I'm already halfway there right? Woaaaah, 'm halfway theeere woaaah oh!-"

"Stop now, and I'll blame it on temporary insanity. C'mon you idiot, we need to keep moving. Everything keeps changing. I really need you to snap out of it and help me navigate this, alright? I need you right now."

Those pretty words dripping from those pretty lips, each one almost tangible, like he could reach out and hold them in his hands, covet them and protect them; they're almost irresistible.

_She needs me_.

He repeats it in his head, over and over as a mantra. No one has ever _needed_ him, not for anything other than completing a family photo or filling in an ensemble, pressing down a chord

here or there; a place holder, a gap filler, replaceable at best.

_**She **__needs_ _**me?**_

And she wears her honesty all over her face, plain as day. She does, she means it, she needs him. Just for this moment, someone needs him and he dare not disappoint, especially not her. What kind of man would he be if he couldn't pull through for her?

So he tries, he tries so hard. He focuses on the chaos of her melody, and somehow it's grounding. The frantic desperation of it is something to hold onto, not the anchor.

The buoy.

Things start to come a little more into focus now as he regains some semblance of his equilibrium, and he sees that it's true, the world has shifted again, tar covered trees and strongly smelling black soil beneath him. He can't hear water running anymore, but he can hear the wind whistling through cracked windows. His heart sinks at the realization of what _fun and exciting_ place has popped up now.

_God, no. _He screws his eyes shut, groaning at the absolute absurdity of all this shit he's brought with him. He thought that this forest only warped of its own accord. Why is it adapting to his subconsciousness?

Can he go back to drowning now?

"Hey, you here? Are you with me?"

He only groans, and she shakes him by his shoulders, irritated and impatient. Maka has no time for him to have his mini crisis, apparently. It's not like he can blame her. He takes a steadying breath.

"Yeah. I'm here."

She exhales breathily, relieved, and he can't bring himself to look at her, because the concern he knows he would see on her face would be too much to handle.

Maka's hands on his chest seem to _burn,_ and he yelps, but she suddenly goes rigid, on guard, and shushes him with a harsh flick to the nipple. His eyes fly open, and he's just about to ask her _what the fuck her problem is,_ but Maka is somewhere far away, right there with him but eyes clouded over as she stares out into the grotesque dream-scape he's conjured up. Her eyes are almost black, pupils unnaturally large, consuming the green.

Just like the inkiness that consumes the trees.

"Wha-"

"Seems we're not alone. Come on, we gotta go inside."

Inside. Inside that decrepit old Victorian, the home of some of the dumbest fears he's got. Of course that's where she wants to go.

Goddamnit.

"That makes literally no fucking sense. That'll just trap u-"

"C'mon, you big baby, let's go."

She tugs on him to stand up, and he finds himself being dragged behind her yet again, up the peeling stairs of the porch and in through the blood red door. He's unsurprised to find it lit by flickering flame, disguising itself as a haven when really it's a hell. She locks the door behind them.

The handle melts into the door.

He feels ill.

"Don't worry about it, that just means whoever was lurking out there can't get in."

"I don't really understand why you're so fucking calm. I wasn't really all that worried about whoever was out there to be honest."

"...Oh."

"Yeah. I'm not unfamiliar with this place."

"Sorry."

He sighs deeply, containing the urge to snap at her any more. It was done with the best of intentions.

"It's cool. Let's just- I dunno. Find a way out of this hellhole before shit starts moving around again."

She nods solemnly, gripping his hand tightly in her own, leading him through his own mind with a kind of surety that he envies and admires. The floorboards don't even dare to creak beneath her feet. The firelight of the candles glows higher as she strides past them, her fierce energy seeming to transfer into their surroundings. He tries not to think about that fucked up movie about the house that ate people.

Fucking hell, he just wants to get out of here.

She tugs him up a stairwell, ignoring the way the eerie, faceless paintings shift in their frames, ignoring the strangely cacophonous skittering along the floors as if she isn't scared in the slightest.

But he can feel her frequency, the way her music falters and falls into discord, and he knows she is only putting on a brave face for him. He can't say he doesn't appreciate it, but it does make him feel pretty guilty.

At the top of the stairwell there is a hallway, one he knows far too well, and he jerks to a halt at the upper landing, wondering just what his mind will show her when she opens the first door. Maybe if he wishes hard enough for it, the door will just lead to a balcony. A jump from this height wouldn't do shit to them, right? They'd be just fine.

He hears a sickening crunch of wood splintering from downstairs, and his stomach just about drops out his ass. Fuck everything, he just wants some goddamn peace.

It's right around then that he realizes they left their weapon outside, and a feeling of dread settles deep within him. This is gonna suck. For sure.

"Shit," Maka mutters, and drags him into the first door on the left.

_Of course. Sinistra._

The irony is not lost on him.

She closes the door behind them with a quiet click, and he feels like they're in some deranged episode of Scooby Doo, some unknown possible (probable) lunatic following them through corridors of a decrepit old house. Being here makes him feel like a child, young and scared and absolutely helpless.

He realizes, infuriated, that all these thoughts are cyclical, things he's thought before, over and over, and yet here they are again. Shouldn't he be making progress? Shouldn't he be better, if only a little? He feels the same. He feels foolish.

Not alone. Not anymore.

But foolish all the same.

Maka grabs a chair from the corner, jamming the back of it beneath the doorknob and backing away from where they entered the room, eyes fixed on the strange carvings around the doorframe. He watches her watch the writhing ivy, watches the way she marvels at how the house breathes and twitches and quakes, as if it were a monster itself. The notion is more truth than he'd care to admit.

"Sooo," she starts," what exactly am I supposed to expect here?"

"I dunno, spiders and self-hatred? How the fuck should I know?" He feels kind of like a prick as soon as he says it, cause he does sort of have a vague idea of what to expect, it being from his mind and all.

Though, to be fair, spiders and self-hatred is _actually _a pretty good summary.

"Well excuuuuuse me, just kinda would like to be warned if you frequently have dreams that look like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. I like my innards staying on the inside."

"Tch, as if I'd ever be so cliche."

Something slick and clammy circles around his ankle then, and he realizes that the carvings of vines from the doorframe have taken it upon themselves to _creep him the fuck out_. He bites back the potentially high pitched yelp that tries to claw its way from his throat as the frightfully animated vines inch closer to his flailing legs, and he scrambles away from them, back quickly meeting the wall of the room.

Maka looks at him like he's just lost his mind.

And then she screams.

It seems the vines are far more interested in her than him, and her breaths quicken to what might be considered hyperventilation in a world where air were relevant.

This must be why the vines had taken him by surprise.

Now the world is bending to the will of her subconsciousness _as well _as his.

Well.

_Shit._

She's stomping around like she's in some sort of drug induced tapdancing frenzie, chanting something unintelligible that he assumes are curses, until his brain finally catches up and tells him _go help her you royal asshole, _and he stumbles over his own feet, grabbing an elaborately carved wooden chair from the corner of the room to thwack away at the greenery doing its best to eat the only person he ever really gave much of a shit about.

Before he can even get to her, her eyes slam shut and her whole body shakes, and she shouts at him,

"Ohhh god please no Soul _tell it to stop thisissofuckedup_."

"Me?! This isn't me, how the fuck am I suppose to make it stop?!"

"I don't know just figure it ou-ohgod one touched my knee _oh my god oh god nonono-"_

A feeling of overwhelming rage fills up his gut and spreads through all his extremities, hot and bitter and - logically speaking - almost entirely unwarranted. He tries to bite back the words of frustration, but they spill out anyway, sour on his tongue and heavy on his conscience, but he _just can't stop himself, _and he interrupts her frantic yammering.

"What is your fucking _deal_?! It's just a couple of plants, the only **real **problem right now is _**you! **_Calm the fuck down and **think!"**

Her eyes are wild as she snarls,

"Says the guy who tried to drown himself like, _five fucking seconds ago! _"

That one hurts, and the fire builds and builds, his anger reaching unreasonable levels, and he can feel the way her own burns hotter than the stars, barely contained within her skin as she fumes, frightened and enraged beyond belief. His own anger is only fueled further by the way she's acting, and he ends up lashing out even more because of it.

"Can you maybe just shut the hell up!? We need out of this room, shitshit_shit."_

She is snide, croaking,

"You know what would be suuuuuuper helpful right now? A _**fucking scythe.**_"

"Oi, why're you looking at me like that!? You're the one who left it behind!"

She shrieks, "IDIOT! I can't even pick the damned thing up if you're not possessing it, how is it MY fault _you pric-_"

And it all makes sense in that moment, when her music scalds him from the inside out and her words lash at his skin, he knows what's happening, knows what has to be done to stop it, but isn't sure if he'll be able to do it, not without her help.

"Maka."

"**What!?"**

Off to an excellent start.

He closes his eyes, breathes slowly, trying desperately to get a handle on his temper, and says through clenched teeth, "Calm down."

It's obviously the wrong choice of words, which he should have known, but he's never had the strongest social skills.

It's like she completely forgets all other things irritating her at that particular moment, forgets the vines, and the nightmares, and the whole damn house around them, focusing only on him and the rage she feels for him, and she's scary as hell. Her nose is almost touching his, eyes far too dark as she snarls at him.

"_Don't tell me to __**calm down**__. _It's _**your **_fault we even have to deal with this twisted shit in the first place, this house only exists because of _**you!**_"

She is feral and cruel, and he can see the truth of her feelings, the fear and the pain, all within her eyes, screaming apologies silently, but right now her words ring far louder, and it takes all he has not to allow her to get under his skin. It's not like _she _was the one who insisted that they go into that rickety old shack or anything...

"I just mean - this - agh. I'm not gonna fucking argue, okay? This is the objective, Maka. To get us to turn against each other."

He can see her understanding, her shame of being overtaken so easily.

He lets the chair drop to the right of them, ignores the way the vines overtake it and demolish it, grabs her face in both of his hands and _begs._

"Don't let them win."

Her eyes go wide, irises blooming out from beneath the black of her pupils, and she mutters "shit" under her breath. She tries to back up, but trips over a thick, ropey vine, Soul barely managing to grasp her around the waist before she can crack her head on the floorboards. His arm burns where their skin makes contact, and she yelps so suddenly he almost drops her before she gets a chance to regain her footing.

She staggers upright, arms hovering out at her sides to keep her balance as she glares at the insidious greenery creeping ever closer, uncaring of their problems with their 'feelings'. She hisses when one whips at her ankle, thorns biting into her deeply before retreating again. She spits, "What the **fuck **just happened?"

Soul can't help but scoff.

"Youuuu're gonna have to be a _little _more specific, cause a whole lot of shit just 'happened'."

"I mean, why did I just get the sudden urge to strangle you?!"

"I generally tend to have that effect on people, so I wouldn't think too hard on it."

"I'm serious! We need to get out of here, Soul, it was _bad. _The last time I felt that angry was-" She stops short, like her tongue has been superglued to her shiny white teeth.

"Hey," he prods," was when?"

Nothing. She ignores him entirely, eyes searching crazily for an exit, for escape, for an end to this madness, and like magic, a door appears.

It's black.

Soul's throat closes.

Maka grabs his hand, and though he knows it still burns, she seems to ignore it, pulling him along behind her as she rushes for a door that she thinks leads to freedom, a door that he knows only leads to misery.

He tries to warn her, but they're already through the door, and the floor creeps and crawls beneath them, curling around their toes and skittering up their legs. He can't see a damn thing, only feels her searing palm and hears her when she huffs, "You were _serious _about the spiders!?"

He chuckles a little at first at how absolutely done she sounds, laughs harder at how strange his laughter is in this room, like there are no walls, but he's being crushed all the same. When he speaks, it's almost lost to the void, swallowed up and forgotten as the darkness suffocates him.

He laughs until his chest aches.

"H-hey, it wasn't _that _funny."

Oh, _but it was._

He can hardly even recognize his own voice, disembodied, tinny, almost in hysterics, and somewhere in his mind he's a little pissed that he's so easily thrown off by these things, that he's so unstable, so susceptible.

Another part, a very dominant, loud part, is just _sick_ of this bullshit realm.

"Ohhh ho ho. T-this is tooooo perfect, absolutely fucking flawless. For fuck's sake, where'd the goddamn door go, I'd rather get violated by demonic plants, fuck this, fuck everyth-"

"Soul-"

"I'm so fucking done I can't eve-"

And there she is.

The queen, the puppetmaster, the one who pulls the strings, tearing at his seams and slipping beneath each little stitch, tingling in his fingers and skittering up his now ramrod straight spine.

His jaw locks and his joints freeze, his eyes wide though he can hardly see, and he can feel her web has got him by his scruff, pulling him up on his tippy toes until his ankles are limp and his feet leave the ground. He feels like a ragdoll made up of stuffing and wire, useless while being utilized, his mouth moving but no words escaping. His vocal chords are cotton fluff, his arms merely decoration, and it's cliche, so cliche, but he actually finds himself thinking, 'Why me?'.

Her voice is a silken black hole, all consuming and uncomfortably comforting, when she asks, "Why don't you just take a rest? I know you're tired darling, so let me handle things for a while."

He wishes he had never agreed to therapy four years ago, never let this woman into his mind, because she planted a seed that has never left him alone since that moment, no matter how twisted and awful he knew it was.

She gave him the hope that he wouldn't have to handle things on his own, the security of having others make the important decisions. He could just sit back and watch it all unfold, and everything would be alright.

Neuroscientists say that the frontal lobe of a human being's brain isn't even fully developed until around eighteen years of age.

That's the part of the brain that is equipped for logical decision making.

It's why he figured letting someone else call the shots would be better.

His brother had seen something was wrong. He put a stop to it, and Soul hated him, just for a little while, because Wes was responsibility, Wes was talent, Wes was the understanding of consequences, and it all made Soul's head throb and heart ache.

_Give me simplicity._

_Give me apathy._

_Give me_ _**lies**_…

_Because my soul can't tolerate much else._

But how do you say something so awful to someone who cares so much?

He's still tired, maybe even more tired than he had been when all of these things first happened, and he really, _really, _wishes to give in, but then there's _Maka, _and giving up isn't an option, the easy way out isn't an option, lies **are not an option. **Her song is in the key of honesty, and it's amongst the most beautiful things he's ever heard.

The music does not lie.

There's no need for that.

Maka doesn't speak, but she doesn't have to; he can hear the chords of her heartstrings, her soul singing to him, and he knows that he is better than this. Better than a puppet, better than a pawn, better than a tool. Maybe a few minutes from now he won't remember this feeling, but at least he will know that it exists.

That will be enough.

In the darkness, he sees cold blue eyes, staring at him expectantly, watching and waiting, and it takes all his willpower to stare back as he finds his limbs, wiggling his fingers and toes first, unlocking his jaw, bending his knees. Seeing the confusion in those eyes is so satisfying that a ragged, harsh laugh escapes him, his vocal chords once again intact, and he can feel hands at his back, warm and real and true. That woman who crept into his mind and poisoned it from the inside out, she's not gone, the _idea_ she planted isn't gone, but they no longer hold the power they did once.

And for him, for now? It's enough.

The floor gives way beneath him and Maka, and he holds his breath so he can't scream.

It's like it was in those old cartoons he used to sneak away to watch with Wes, the ones where a character would run off the edge of a cliff, and for about four beautiful, impossible, incredible seconds, sheer disbelief held them suspended, perfectly still. Then reality - or whatever it's called - sets in. And the character plummets downward in a panic, toward... whatever.

Except he can see what they're falling towards, and it really doesn't look like it will be a comfortable landing. There's a very small part of his brain that registers the fact that it shouldn't be such a large fall, you could fall out a window from two stories up and if you land correctly, you probably will hardly get bruised. But that part of his brain is pretty quiet while the rest of it is in full on panic mode. The sound of Maka's shriek isn't helping much in that department.

They hit the top few steps of the spiral staircase with a cacophonous clash of notes that makes his ears ring unpleasantly, and he realizes that the impact is painful, which he knows is really not a good sign. He doesn't spend much time dwelling on it though, because he can see the scythe not too far off, can hear one of the inner doors of the looming building being broken down. When he rights himself and helps a confused, disheveled, _furious _looking Maka to her feet, he tries not to dread the berating he'll probably end up getting for this later on.

He tries to tug her along with him down the staircase of black and white keys, but before his toes even reach the A note, she's got him by the back of neck, and his arms windmill around ridiculously to keep his balance as she pinches a pressure point that makes his vision a little blurry. This whole not having a body thing would be so much more convenient if it actually seemed to save him from physical discomfort.

But alas, this realm doesn't seem like the kind for convenience.

When she's absolutely certain she has Soul's attention, she hisses,

"You owe me all kinds of explanations when this shit is through, you hear me? You're gonna spill it. As soon as we're out of here. Agreed?"

He's overwhelmed and confused and, twistedly enough, just a little turned on by the way she grips him and speaks directly into his ear, so he goes the safe route and replies with snark.

"I'd nod 'yes' but I can't feel my neck."

She growls lowly, but releases her grip on him, grabbing him by the hand instead and turning him to face her. It was a lot easier to be a snarky jerk when he couldn't see her eyes. He thinks she knows that, the perceptive little nerd. Her eyes are wide and concerned as she stares at him, and he sees her petal pink lips part slightly as if to speak, but then her mouth snaps shut, her jaw tense as her eyes flicker back to the trapdoor they came from. They glaze over momentarily, then quickly clear just before he hears another crash, and he realizes what she's going to say before she says it. They have to go.

He squeezes her hand, and when she nods, the both break into a sprint down the spiraling piano, their bounds somehow harmonizing even when their steps falter and do not match. Vines coated in spiderwebs begin to spread from the building out the trapdoor, reaching for their stairs, and Soul _really _wishes he were a fucking scythe right now.

He skips half octaves at a time, ankles nearly buckling beneath the absolute desperation and terror, but Maka seems just as driven, if not more so, sometimes bounding an entire octave of giant keys, ankles sturdy beneath her. He envies the surety of her steps, wishes he could make moves with such confidence that they weren't a mistake. Sometimes she hits sour notes, but she pays it no mind at all, always moving forward, forward, forward. No time to look back, no, they have a mission, a purpose, and it doesn't involve second guessing or wallowing in mistakes they've made. He can see how deeply she understands it in the way she moves.

He risks a glance at their destination, the scythe useless and very distinctly inanimate, ink from the trees drooling onto the blade in a fashion that's almost sickly. It turns his stomach, but for the first time in what seems like _ages, _something goes their way.

It seems that though her behavior may come across as erratic at first, Patti is actually quite reliable. Those golden glowing mushrooms sprout up, lighting their path to some place he's absolutely certain is far better than where they are now. His left foot hits the 42nd key in _just _the wrong way, his excitement nearly sending him tumbling down the remaining 46 keys if not for Maka grabbing a wrist. He doesn't remember being so clumsy, but his nerves are fried and he's tired, and now that he knows it's actually a possibility, he just really wants to get back to the mansion and go to sleep.

The final few keys are chaotic, discordant in a way that makes his bones rattle and his teeth chatter. His blood vibrates the way one's joints would when cracking a baseball with an aluminum bat _just so. _It's electric and unpleasant and sends a violent shiver up his spine, and he has a strange moment of sympathy for Harvey before being jerked back into his reality by the realization that he's harmonized with Maka perfectly, just for a moment, before their feet hit the spongy black earth.

When they finally reach the scythe, Soul immediately binds himself with the weapon so Maka can grasp it. He takes a millisecond to look back at that house of horrors through his blade, and is hit with the jarring realization that the front door remains untouched, no sign of forceful entry, no indication that anyone other than he and Maka had been there. His gut lurches, and the truth hits him hard.

It was just another trick, playing on a fear. He knows that this one is unfamiliar to him, and so it must have been one of Maka's. He tries not to dwell on the implications of it and catalogs the piece of information deep within his mind, somewhere she shouldn't be able to find it when they resonate, behind that time he found his dad's stash of high class porn magazines and that other time he bothered to take out the trash on his own, seeing empty Valium bottles with his mother's name all over them stuffed in the plastic bag. If Maka has any sense of respect for privacy, he's sure she won't look any deeper than that.

Hopefully.

His spine pops when she grasps him tighter, her grip determined but slightly frightened, and he's so glad for the fact that they have someone watching over them now, so glad someone is _watching out_ for them. He'll have to thank Patti when they get back.

He gratefully sips on the silence that stretches on as Maka flees the area, and he takes comfort in the way she leans her cheek against the haft of the scythe, her breath warming his blade from the uncomfortable chill. All the inky blackness that covered the weapon doesn't do a damn thing to her, and it's such a relief.

She's running for a long while before he breaks the silence, assures her that no one is following, she can relax for a minute, really she can. She's reluctant, to put it lightly, but eventually concedes. The environment stopped warping, shifting to a grassy meadow with a slow flowing creek beside it and remaining that way. In the back of his mind he thinks about how strange it is, the way everything once seemed so much larger than life, but now it's like they have their own realm within the realm. Daffodils and foxglove dapple the field with colour. It's slightly reassuring, the way they seem to fit now, in a strange way, if not for the words that escape Maka in the moment after he makes his observation.

"T-there wasn't even anyone chasing us, was there."

Honesty is the best policy, isn't it?

Soul shifts out of the scythe, paying it no mind when it lands in the grass with a soft _whump._ He crouches down beside her where she's flopped down, sitting crosslegged with her palms pressed hard against her eyes. It looks painful. He wants to stop her, but doesn't know how.

"Yeah. I mean no- no one was chasing us."

She sighs deeply, and his fingers curl into his own hair, tugging nervously as he waits for her to speak again.

"It was just a fear."

He glances at her, and she gives him a small, sad smile. She repeats to herself, "just a fear, only a fear," and he feels so very sick for her.

He gathers all the courage he can muster, and asks her, quietly, solemnly,

"Where'd that come from? Cause it- I mean- that wasn't mine."

"Well isn't this just a learning experience. Are you having a good time? I'm having a greeeat time." This hint of suppressed hysteria in her voice doesn't go unnoticed. It chills him through and through.

He leans a bit closer to her, his fingers curling cautiously around her upper arm, and she looks back at him with glazed eyes. Her waist is still an angry red from where his grip has burned her before. His is fraught with guilt, and she isn't looking at him, she's looking through him, which only intensifies the feeling. He's reminded of being a child again in a way that makes him want to run very, _very _far away.

But her music is so faint that it's frightening, and he knows that he'll stay, he will always stay until she decides she no longer wants him to. He squeezes her shoulder, murmurs, "Hey, seriously. You okay?"

She snorts out a humorless laugh, eyes refocusing on him, solidifying him, making him real again.

"Funny, I thought I'd be the one asking you that. Let's not dwell on it, okay? Please? I just want to go back and lay down. I'm tired."

He doesn't bother arguing with her, noting the sharp, harsh set to her jaw and letting the quiet sweep over them once more.

Her song has gone silent.


	5. Part 5

Note: You guys know how it is. Thanks for reading, you're wonderful. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>After a little while of following Patti's long path, passively looking for threats, she blesses him with the relief of resonance, this time while he's bonded with his weapon, and though the bond doesn't feel as close as a true resonance, it still fills up that hole in his spirit that he never recognizes until it's no longer empty. Their surroundings seem fairly benign, tranquil and all pastels. Soul still has a hard time adjusting to the lack of bugs buzzing and birds chittering. The only thing more disturbing than white noise in this kind of situation is total silence. Maka's steps don't even make a sound, and he's glad for the faint hum of her soul. If she won't speak, at least he can hear her spirit sing, though it is mournful and solemn, and so very hurt.<p>

He wishes he were courageous like her, wishes he could just demand that she give him all of her pain and hurt and rage, let him take all of it for himself so she could be at peace, but he knows she would never allow it, even if it were a possibility.

She takes all of her issues for what they are: hers.

Which seems a bit absurd considering the fact that they joined together for the purpose of becoming stronger as a unit and individuals. Not like he can really talk, though; he's tried to exclude her from every nightmare of his own thus far.

He feels a strange kind of tugging, like her soul is trying to detach from his, and the dread that wells up in the pit of his stomach like an icy stone _hurts._

He is bashful, but refuses to show it as he asks in the most nonchalant tone he can summon, "Oi, what's your deal?"

And it's not like he was expecting anything much better than a "Fuck off," but it still stings a little, and leaves him wholly unsatisfied. He had thought that maybe something else was bothering her. It wouldn't be surprising; this whole realm they're stuck in is a whole lot of 'something else'. But now he's getting these hostile waves of emotion directed at him, and he really doesn't understand why, nor will he shut up and deal with it. He knows what happens when issues get swept under the rug; they're just that much more difficult to clean up later after they've had time to congeal and petrify.

He takes a steadying breath.

"Seriously. Something's bothering you, and I wanna know what. I'm gonna figure it out sooner or later anyway."

He can hear her teeth grind in the effort not to completely snap at him, and maybe in another situation he might poke fun at her 'yoga breaths', but right now, he's too distracted by how distressed she seems.

As she opens her mouth to speak, a feral growl rumbles from somewhere within the woods. Maka stops dead, jaw clenched.

Soul doesn't dare to take a breath. He simply waits.

And waits.

_And waits._

He's glad for how quick Maka is on her feet when an animalistic man-beast charges out of the underbrush with its oh-so-familiar fangs bared, claws ready to render flesh from bone if such a concept existed in their lovely little purgatory. The beast swipes at her clumsily with limbs too large for its body, and she parrys to the left, always left, he's realizing this pattern, and sincerely hopes he is the only one. He can feel those undertones of rage and hurt swelling into a clusterfuck of raw emotion that burns him from the inside, and he's scared by it, but he also wishes so deeply to see it manifest itself in action.

This beast is no match for her and her hurt, surely. No match for her anger, her determination, her love.

This beast is _nothing._

This beast still has claws though, and it catches her across the ribs somehow, ruby red glistening on her porcelain skin so vibrantly. She screams, but it's not in pain, it is fierce, seeking the blood of another, blood to pay its due to her.

Logically, everyone here knows souls can't _really_ bleed out.

Right?

The beast unhinges its maw, to growl, or speak, or _something, _but in that moment Soul feels unnaturally warm, because his blade is wedged deep within the chest of this creature, vibrating with its wails of pain, and he hates that it feels good, feels like victory, feels like everything he's ever wanted, _but it does._

The thing regains its composure too quickly, walloping Maka so hard that _Soul _sees stars, and they go flying into the underbrush. He's distantly thankful for the fact that she never loosened her grip on him, never risked the separation.

Maka is sluggish now, weak, and Soul distantly realizes that it's begun to snow.

He can feel the warmth of her blood seeping onto his blade, smells the tang of her wounds and hears the way her skin stitches itself back together. She isn't bound to this world enough to be truly harmed by a beast born of it. He's proud of her strength of will, proud though he has no right to be.

She pulls him into a deeper resonance, and he can feel the rawness around his ribcage, can taste copper on his tongue, and for a nightmare, it all seems a bit too real.

But he supposes it's only fitting.

He sees through her eyes for a moment, sees the beast loom over them, its soul halfway detached from its golem, and the soul is not a beast, but a man, a man with a gaping hole where an eye used to be and a painful grimace on his face. As his soul assimilates with his golem, he speaks from both mouths, his maw snarling and his grimace strained as he growls,

"You can't kill what's already dead."

He raises a clawed paw to strike them, and Soul screams for Maka to block, so loudly it makes his ears ring, but there's a hissing sound, and the beast-man drops its position, glancing down at its feet.

And in a strange moment of humanity, he rolls his one good eye and mutters, "Oh for the love of Pete," cringing slightly before his gaze goes glassy. He glances down at Maka with a blank expression, and Soul sees a snake slither up a ratty pant leg.

Then the beast man is gone, the only evidence of his existence left behind in pink pawprints in the fine dusting of snow. Soul feels the lightness of elation wash over him, but it's swiftly crushed by a wave of blinding rage. Maka forces a resonance so strong it pulls him out of the scythe and into her, and it feels like he'll be torn apart from the inside, like _they're _being torn apart from the inside.

And now he sees why.

The image of a red haired man flashes before them, and he can hear Maka's breath falter, feel the way their bond pulls tight like a harp string ready to snap, and for the first time since they decided to find their way out of this together, he's truly, deeply fearful that they won't.

It's like a flipbook of indiscretion, another woman with the man in every flash, sometimes in various states of undress that make Soul's stomach flip in disgust, because he knows. Knows who that man is to Maka, and who that man _wasn't_ to Maka's mother.

_Maka._

No reply.

_Maka, please?_

She won't even allow them to move.

The red haired man pleads with a lovely black haired woman with hazel eyes and a shattered heart. Maka is paralyzed.

_Trust me, Maka._

Through their bond, he sees rapid flashes of that man groveling at Maka's feet, begging, pleading for her to trust him, and Soul knows, he's said exactly the wrong words at the wrong time. He can feel her choking on tears, feels the tightness in his own throat, and he just _knows._

It's like they've both become the negative ends of a magnet, repelling from each other violently and shattering the bond they created. The images of the red haired man and beautiful, mournful woman are gone from before his eyes, but the pathetic, destructive scene replays in his head over and over and over, and he thinks if he had a real body, he might be sick. It's a feeling he's grown far too used to in these past few days.

His fury is misdirected, misguided, and cruel.

He is still the selfish boy he's always been as he yells at her, desperate and angry and confused,

"What the hell Maka?! Why did you reject me?!"

It's rhetorical, because he's already well aware, but he knows that if she can't acknowledge it, they will _never leave this place_.

She's curled in on herself in the dirt, and she feels so far away, so he scrambles toward her and unfurls her, holds her face in his hands and asks her to please, look at him, _please open her eyes._

When she does, they are dull green, like the decapitated ends of the grass that have sat in the sun too long and are all too aware that their lives are coming to a close, slowly but surely, and it makes him _ache._

Her tears drip from her face to the soil beneath her, but make no mark upon it, and the injustice of it enrages him. How could someone so incredible, so absolutely astounding, so _**real**_, not make a mark upon the world that exists around them?

He feels a kind of madness creep through him as the tears keep falling, and all he wants is for it to stop, for her tears to _please, __**stop.**_

And she says something that hurts him far more than he should allow.

"Why wouldn't I? All of you are j-just, you're just l-liars ah-and cheats! Why should I trust you with my soul when even my body rejects it?! Why should I trust you at all?!"

She's hysterical and he's petrified, too scared to utter a syllable, so terrified that he may make the wrong move and she'll leave him, leave him alone in this world where he cannot even reach out and touch anything but her soul. She is what makes Soul feel real, and he's not sure what would happen if she were to leave him behind, to give up on him, but he really, _really, _doesn't ever want to find out.

The realization hits him like a ton of bricks.

That red haired man was Maka's father, and the betrayal still sits within Maka's heart every time she reaches out, every time she meets someone new. She expects the worst of people.

It's all she's ever gotten.

But he and Maka - they've been through so much _shit together, _and the idea that that man, her _father, _could be the one to unravel it all?

Soul can't take it.

He takes her face in his hands, and she presses her wet cheek into his palm as sobs wrack through her. He would relish in the fact that he can _feel_ the shakes, _touch _her tears and sense her warmth, but as he watches her fall apart, he falls apart too, presses his forehead to hers and apologizes, over and over and over he apologizes.

And he feels her cringe away from him.

He pulls away immediately, hands hovering near her but unsure of what to do, what he's done to make her so disgusted, so skittish and scared.

She curls up on her side again, and he doesn't _want_ to ask, but he _has_ to.

He's unsure what he should ask first, stumbles over his words, and somewhere within him he realizes he should be embarrassed, but it's so irrelevant, so meaningless how he feels when he has to sit beside her and try desperately to find a way to comfort someone who is absolutely beside herself with grief. His first instinct has always been to run.

But with her it's different.

He wants her secrets and her grief and her joy. He wants her issues. He wants her in all the worst and best ways and will be anything she needs him to be, but she has to tell him _what that is._

"What can I do?"

"D-don't... don't lie to me."

_He's so confused._

He attempts to turn her toward him, a gentle hand on her shoulder, but she shrugs out of his grip.

She mumbles,

"Why are you here?"

If he had a physical heart at the moment, it would clench in his chest and freeze over.

_He doesn't understand._

"What?"

And then she's in his face, eyes watery and sorrowful, but lips turned to a snarl, poised to wound.

"Why the **fuck** are you here?! You're just going to leave anyway! Everyone does, so why should I trust _you_ not to?! Who are you to me?!"

And he doesn't know.

He doesn't know who he is to her.

But he knows who she is to him, and what he hopes to become to her.

He will take responsibility.

He will give her what she needs.

"I'm sorry."

Her sob catches in her throat, and her face twists into a look of confusion.

He says it again, and does not try to touch her.

He says it over, and over, and tucks his face into his knees, because he can't handle the intensity of her while he bears the burden of all the betrayal she has faced.

When she finally remembers how to speak, she asks him, quiet and ashamed,

"Why...? You've dealt with more shit of mine than anyone else has... I shouldn't group you in with those people. It's not fair."

He chuckles, forehead still resting on his kneecaps, and reaches out a hand, which he's relieved that she accepts. He takes a deep breath that he doesn't need, but is comforted by, and tells her,

"Not much is fair. That's why I'm sorry."

Now he can feel that _she's _confused.

He turns his face toward her, cheek awkwardly pressed upward and distorting his vision as he smiles sadly, and he thinks the fact that he probably looks a little like an albino chipmunk should make her laugh, but she doesn't, instead inquiring,

"Huh?"

So eloquent. Truly valedictorian material.

He just laughs though, and offers her the explanation she needs.

"Sometimes you don't get an apology from the people who hurt you most… so I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what they did, whatever it was. I'm sorry, Maka, and I promise I won't do the same to you. Tell me if I hurt you so I can fix it, cause I will. I don't wanna be a regret."

He almost doesn't recognize his own voice, so open and honest and true. This is what she does to him. He doesn't want to let that go without a fight.

A tear drips from her onto his hand, and when he looks at her, there's a watery little smile twitching on her lips, fragile and cautious and so hopeful, and he's proud, proud that he brought this delicate contentment from her. He will do all he can to protect it.

He will do anything to protect _her_.

She grips his hand harder and tells him,

"You should go on without me. I don't think I'll be able to get past _them. _I never have been able to, you know? They're always in the back of my mind, and it's shit. I'm just weighing you down."

She pastes on a smile, patting the back of his hand in a way that he can't help but think of as condescending, as if she's not asking him to discard part of himself, as if it should be the easiest thing in the world to abandon her with her worst fears.

He just sighs, squeezes her hand tightly and tells her firmly,

"If you stay, I'll be right by your side."

She's silent for a long while, still calming her breaths. She sighs deeply, looks into his eyes and says,

"We have to get out of here. Both of us."

And he decides that no matter where she ends up, he will be there with her.

He gets to his feet, brushes off the back of his boxers even though it's pointless to do so, and offers her a hand.

She accepts.

* * *

><p>Patti had apparently taken the snow into account, because the mushrooms are up to Maka's knees and fluorescent pink once they get back on track. It's kinda cute, in a weird way, and it feels warm as the mushrooms pass through Maka's limbs, like Patti knows exactly how rough their day has been and is trying in her own strange, sweet, indirect way to offer some comfort.<p>

The snow grows thicker, and now that he's in a more stable state of mind again, he takes a moment to appreciate the way it just flows through her.

He wants to break the eerie silence, so he says one of the first things that come to mind, which happens to be,

"Hey, am I heavy to lug around like this?"

He feels a little rude for not having asked it previously, but also kind of embarrassed for asking about his weight. It's never been something he's had to concern himself with before. It's weird.

But she just lets out a delicate snort and tells him he's light as a feather. He thinks maybe he hears a tinge of sarcasm in her voice, a playfulness to her music, but he decides not to spend too much time contemplating it. The silence is a bit more comfortable after that, though he does make a mental note to talk to her more when they're not as exhausted and emotionally drained. He likes the sound of her voice, and it'd be an honor if she were to voluntarily tell him things about herself, rather than having him accidentally see things in her mind that maybe he wasn't supposed to.

They wander for a long while, watching as the sky slowly grows orange, then lavender and indigo, until they eventually stumble upon a clearing that looks vaguely familiar, elated to see two spikes of hair and a lightning bolt staff.

Harvey shifts out of the staff, and Soul can feel the vague pang of jealousy when they both see that Ox can still hold up his weapon. He'd like to grasp her hand, but that would require her letting go of their weapon, and it just seems rather unwise, considering their luck.

Soul had expected a little bit of worry, or maybe outrage, or frustration from Ox and Harv; after all, they had been left in charge of him and Maka. But instead, all they get is Harvey boredly inquiring something that he already knows the answer to.

"Somebody fell a little too far down the rabbit hole, huh?"

Soul feels the urge to be a sarcastic little shit, but Maka beats him to it, takes the words right out of his mouth.

"I thought that this place _was _the rabbit hole, which would mean that you fell down it and never crawled out, right?"

In the dull glow of the moon, Soul can hardly see, but he does catch the way Harvey's lip quirks in an almost smirk when he says, "Touche," and turns back to the path Patti had conjured.

Soul decides then to speak up.

"Okay so, you're not gonna ask what happened?"

Ox snorts, "Nah."

"Not even curious?"

Harvey shrugs, "Not really. We've been here a while, not much you can say that'll surprise us."

Maka huffs a little and says almost proudly, "We almost got strangled by vines."

"Rookie mistake, been there done that," Harvey says. Maka gasps, offended, or maybe surprised? It's hard to differentiate at the moment with his head throbbing so much. She jogs a little to catch up though, and he can feel her curiosity pounding in his temples.

"Wait you mean, you've dealt with something like that before? When?"

"Our job as Reapers is to fight the malignancies of the subconsciousness of lost souls. And trust me Squirt, there's a lot of those around these parts," Harvey informs her, and Maka's temper flares, burning behind Soul's eyes.

"No need to be condescending."

"There's deadpan, and there's condescending, and though the line between them is thin, it's still there. I thought your talent was reading other souls, _Squirt. _Sorry, my bad."

Maka's hands clench on the shaft of the scythe, and Soul is about to attempt to calm the tension, maybe crack a joke though he can't really think of any at the moment, but then Patti is hurtling toward them.

Or rather, hurtling toward Ox and Harvey, both of whom forget their weapon on the ground and instead opt to open their arms widely for her. Soul still isn't sure how they can all touch, or what exactly goes on (who is the stuffing of the sandwich? Oh god, he doesn't wanna know), but he can see that Harvey actually has a wide grin on his face, as does Ox, and it makes his chest feel tight.

Patti gives both her boys a peck on the lips before taking each of their hands and dragging them along behind her, hardly giving Ox enough time to gather his staff, and they're off toward a flickering orange light in the distance. Patti glances over her shoulder at Maka and Soul (or rather, the scythe he's been trapped in all goddamn day) and casually mentions,

"You look like hell. Betcha Lizzy has some nice clothes for ya if you want? Ooooo we can play dress up tonight! You'll wanna look spiffy while you're fuckin' shit up, right?!"

It's a little hilarious how Maka doesn't even register that Patti is addressing her until about ten seconds go by and Patti starts humming the theme song from Jeopardy.

"O-oh um, sure? I mean, that sounds like fun. Thanks Patti."

"Yerrrrrr welcome! We're gonna find you something so hot that your little loverboy won't be able to resist."

Soul's mind is reeling from the abruptness of the change of atmosphere. Not long ago they were about to be demolished by some wolfbeast, or turned to mindless puppets, and now here they are, making plans to play dress up and being teased. He wouldn't be surprised if someone brought up the idea of truth or dare.

Maka only grumbles in response, while Soul tries to hold back chuckles as well as not blush, when they amble on through some bushes and find themselves around the back of Kid's home, a fire burning brightly in a stone pit.

And when he sees all those smiling faces turn to greet them, he thinks maybe some childish games and storytelling doesn't sound so bad after all.

It's Liz who brings it up, once they're all settled down around the campfire in the now dried grass, and Soul laughs a bit to himself at the incredible irony. He's fond of irony, truly. He's never had the chance to play truth or dare, actually. Never went to a party where he was comfortable enough to partake. But these people around him seem like they have much better things to do than be judgemental pricks, so when Liz mentions it, he actually agrees. It's a little scary, because Maka is off playing dress up with Patti, but he supposes he should try to start to get used to doing things without her again.

After all, if they get out of this place, their chances of being friends in the real world seem rather slim.

He's going to hate seeing Maka in the supermarket and pretending they've never met, but it's probably just how things will be. Such is life, right?

It hurts to realize how quickly his thoughts turn sour without her presence. Now that he's experienced peace, the unrest is more difficult to deal with.

He considers himself extremely lucky when Liz starts, asking Blake, "Truth or dare," to which he predictably replies,

"Tch, dare, obviously. Gods know when to show their minions their mightiness."

Kim chortles, grinning, her arm slung across Jackie's shoulders, "Yeah, yeah, hotshot, you talk real big shit for someone who needs a stepstool to make out with his girlfriend. Give him somethin' good, Liz."

Soul is expecting something absurd, something entertaining, lighthearted, and for once, he isn't disappointed.

"Strip dude. Strip, and climb up that tree over there," she points to an especially spiky looking one, "and do a backflip off it. And land it."

Everyone in the circle groans, and Jackie interjects, "Oh Christ, Liz, we don't need to see his junk any more than usual, think of something else!" Meanwhile, Tsubaki is sitting with her face in her hands, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all. When she looks up through, there's this expression of resignation that tells Soul this isn't the craziest thing that blue haired pinball has done.

Liz just shrugs and says, "I promised my sister," a statement which Soul doesn't want elaborated. At all. Liz nudges Kilik, who jumps a little, then covers the eyes of the twins (which they seem pretty unhappy about). Kid just shakes his head, a small, fond smirk quirking his lips. Soul thinks that if maybe he knew people like this before, he never would have ended up in limbo to begin with. He wishes they had all met on different terms. Maybe they could have gone to school together, done things that normal teens did, but still always be there for each other, conquering puberty and drama and everything _together_.

It might have been nice.

He's yanked from his wistful contemplation when there's a flash of tan and blue that Soul really is glad he didn't get a decent look at. He refuses to look at the tree, but he can hear Liz, Kilik, and Kim absolutely _cackling, _Jackie and Harvey barely containing their chuckles, and Ox flat out making comical gagging sounds, so he knows it must be quite a sight. It's around this time that Patti and Maka reel around the corner, and Soul is so glad for the fact that he sees it, because Patti wasn't messing around when she insinuated that 'loverboy won't be able to resist'.

Well, he can, anyway. But _fuck. _She's in these black military boots, laced all the way up, a skirt that's even shorter than her shorts had been, and a ribbed, tight white tank top that makes him a little lightheaded. She creeps over to him, avoiding stepping on any toes, and sits in the grass beside him. He swallows hard and doesn't speak. She smirks at him, and he knows that she kind of knows.

"Don't worry, it's only a loan- she gets them back at the end of the night."

Honestly, the idea of her stripping out of those clothes doesn't do anything to calm him down. Think pure thoughts, puuuuure thoug-

There's a bellow of "YAHOOOO" and then a concerningly loud _thump._ Everything goes silent for a second.

And then…

"FffffffffffffUCK I THINK I BROKE MY BALLS ON MY KNEECAPSFUCKFUCKFUCK. KIM. BRO. HELP ME OUT DUDE DO YOUR MAGIC THIN-"

Soul breaks out into relieved laughter, cause thank Christ for the distraction, the timing was perfect, and what Kim says next just makes it all exponentially better.

"Ew, as if! Just cause you're too much of a jackass to back down from a dare doesn't mean I should have to heal your huevos for you. Go find a patch of snow to sit in, not my problem."

Blake's voice is reduced to petulant whimpering, but after a few minutes of melodramatic groaning, and Tsubaki helping the idiot to his feet, they amble back over to the circle. Soul finally chances a glance up at them, relieved to find a fully clothed Blake and a mildly amused Tsubaki. He's impressed by how they get along. He hasn't heard much of anything from Tsubaki, seemingly rather soft spoken in disposition.

But she must have one hell of a soul to be able to put up with _that _on a daily basis.

They continue the game for a while, and he doesn't pay as much attention because Maka's knee is pressed against his, so, _so _warm, and it's all he can focus on. He's glad for the fact that no one picks him or Maka out of the group. It shows their consideration for the shock of the situation that he and Maka _still _aren't quite over, and just reaffirms his high opinion of them all.

Then comes around the second time Blake gets a dare, from Maka, and she says,

"Tell us how you really ended up here. Cause we all know that someone like you wouldn't be taken out by any old 'punk'."

Soul can feel her soul has become jittery, and it confuses him, but he remains quiet, watching as things play out.

Blake lets out a deep belly laugh while the others lean in close, apparently all very interested in his response. When Blake finally catches his breath - so to speak - he asks,

"You really wanna know Goldilocks?"

And his tone isn't mocking.

Just curious.

Soul feels Maka's spirit wriggle with excited energy, like that of a happy child, her music resembling the tinkling of an old jack-in-the-box. Her smile is somewhat somber and so nostalgic, eyes flickering in the glow of the flames.

"I'm positive, Star."

The slack jawed look of awe on Blake's (Star's?) face leaves Soul feeling seriously left out of the loop, and it makes his stomach ache.

"Holy shit… Pigtails?!"

She snorts, but grins at him all the same, gently scolding him, "I told you to never call me that, you big idiot."

"_Shit,_ I didn't recognize you without the hair and the blah blah blah and the crayon obsession! Ohhhhhh man, c'mere my little minion!"

Blake (or Star, apparently) wraps Maka into a hug far too tight for Soul's comfort, and apparently for Maka's as well, because she squawks indignantly and flails around until he lets go with a sheepish expression, which looks entirely out of place on his face. He must have remembered that clashing soul wavelengths are a no-no. Soul is a little agitated that this guy just put Maka through pain.

The selfish little boy in his heart is glad that 'Star' can't touch her the way he can. He feels at a disadvantage, not having known her in any other world.

But the fond smile on Maka's lovely face makes him feel guilty for being so inconsiderate. She deserves hugs from whomever she decides to hug.

It's at about this moment that he realizes the words 'In Love' very seriously apply to him.

It's not as much of a shock as maybe it should be.

Maka punches 'Star' hard in the shoulder, though he doesn't budge an inch as she asks _what other Maka's could he possibly know?_ He just shrugs, mumbling something about killed brain cells, and Soul sees the little disapproving wrinkle in Maka's brow, but she moves past it gracefully, instead telling him again that he'd better 'fess up to how he got here; she wants to know what stupid shit he got into while they were out of touch.

His face darkens in a bashful blush, but he puffs up his chest proudly as he says,

"Delsym."

No one responds.

'Star' deflates and slaps a hand to his forehead, like _everyone _should fucking understand exactly what he means. Yeah, sure, cough medicine, but what about it?

He pinches the bridge of his nose, his free arm crossed over his chest in a way that casually says 'I'm so disappointed in you dweebs right now', and sits back down beside Tsubaki, who is barely containing a smirk. He takes a deep breath,

"Okay so, this jackhole Hiro thought he was some hot shit right? And he's all like 'Hey Blake I bet you can't chug two bottles of Delsym and keep your head on straight' and I'm thinkin', what a load of shit, like _medicine _could be the downfall of a god. So _obviously _I gotta put this motherfucker in his place."

_Dramatic pause._

It lasts a little too long, and Kilik finally says with a purposely obnoxious yawn, "And then?"

"And then I tripped so fuckin' hard I fell into another dimension, duh."

Harvey busts out in a belly laugh, then cuts it short abruptly to deadpan,"You're so full of shit Blake."

"Am not! Forreal dude! Alright okay so it was like… I pull wayyy back from real life, right? And then I'm just looking down into all these puddles or somethin', and I'm high as fuck so of course I was like 'yo I should stick my face in each of these puddles' so I do, and it's like each one is another reality or whatever. Like one of 'em has a bigass forest of trees with eyes, and another just looks like a slaughterhouse upchucked, pretty gnarly shit. And- ah, there's the other one with this weird zebra thing? And a fuckton of red flowers. I don't fuckin' know but it was weird as shit. I didn't wanna go into any of those but," his words become less boisterous, more bashful as he glances at Tsubaki, twirls one of his fingers around her long, raven hair, "I see this one stargazin' in one of those puddles and she made me wanna dive in. So I did."

He slips an arm around Tsubaki's waist, pressing his lips to her ear, which seems to make her blush for reasons that Soul can only imagine. Soul feels a pang of envy, but it's entirely different than before. He envies that effortless closeness. He envies the way Tsubaki seems so incredibly pleased to be beside this guy.

But the softness in his eyes as he looks at her says all it needs to. He deserves her love, and she his, for whatever reasons.

And maybe that's kind of beautiful.

"I guess Hiro isn't such a jackhole after all, huh?" Soul inquires, and instead of some obnoxious retort, 'Star' just grins, his eyes never leaving Tsubaki's, and says,

"Yeah dude, I guess not."

Soul feels Maka's arm slip around his waist.

And he smiles.

But still, if he ever gets out of here, he's _never _going to take cough medicine again.

* * *

><p>The day catches up to them pretty quickly after that, and he and Maka call it a night, stumbling off toward their room under the trapdoor, their hands clasped tightly. When they get to their bed, she starts stripping out of her borrowed clothes, and he slams his eyes shut, embarrassed, which honestly is absurd, considering the fact that they met in their goddamn underwear.<p>

And yet…

She slides under the covers and into the center of the bed, beckoning him over. He trips over his own feet and flops down beside her, but faces his back to her, because he may kind of sort of maybe possibly be in love with her, but that doesn't mean that he's automatically entitled to be all affectionate and weird.

He hears her sigh.

Then she's pressed up against his back, her arm around his waist and palm pressed where his heart would be, her nose barely brushing the back of his neck. His mind is hazy, and he idly wonders if she might sneeze with all his shaggy hair tickling her warm face. It feels like too much has happened in too little time, but they've been exposed to some of each other's deepest fears, and neither of them have given up.

It has to count for something, doesn't it?

"Sweet dreams, Soul."

He covers her hand on his chest with his own, snuggling deeper into the covers and her embrace.

"Yeah. You too, Maka."

* * *

><p>The next few days pass in a blur of elation and victory, resonance and music and resolution, and it feels so productive and <em>good. <em>It almost feels like they could conquer anything. Occasionally he catches Maka's worry, for them, for Crona, for the poor lost souls that they Reap, but she powers through it, as seems to be her nature. He offers quietly one night, while they're tangled up in a gentle embrace, if she wants to talk about it, but she just whispers, "I'd rather not right now" softly against the skin of his collarbone, and he leaves it at that. Maybe someday he'll grill her for all her little secrets, but he'd rather just let things progress as they should.

He hopes that there's a Someday for them. He really does.

Nightmares (while he sleeps at least) become far less frequent, and he takes it as a good sign that he's getting closer to being able to take Maka back to her body and away from this place. For all the beauty of it, the subtle (and sometimes not so subtle) horrors far outweigh the beauty.

Though it's a little strange, knowing that if he brings Maka back to her true home, he'll also be leaving behind the only other friends he's ever really had. He's willing, but still somewhat mournful for the loss to come.

Maybe someday they'll all meet again.

* * *

><p>It's the first morning where Kid approves for Soul and Maka to venture off on their own, and Soul is somewhat elated and fearful, because having people put their trust in him is still something that he's getting used to, and it's <em>weird.<em>

Everyone congratulates them, pats them on their backs affectionately before they get ready to head out for the day, and Kilik gifts Maka with a kind of back strap which can hold her scythe even when Soul is not possessing it, which Soul appreciates greatly. That day when they walk out into the forest, Maka has her head held high, eyes sharp and senses strengthened.

By the end of it, they are exhausted and slightly traumatized, so grateful for the idea of going back to Kid's place, crawling into their bed together, and sleeping until they're damn well ready to wake.

But as they wait for Patti's path, her ever-reliable, always-there-at-the-right-time path, it just... never shows up.

Lightning strikes in the distance, forking across the sky, and the hairs on the back of Soul's neck stand on end. Something is deeply _wrong, _the frequency has shifted, skittering over his bones and setting his teeth on edge.

Looks like this time, he and Maka are truly on their own.

They decide to resonate completely, to combine their energy and determination to find their way back, but there comes a point where they begin to trip over their own feet, their souls exhausted and drained to the point of delirium. Soul thinks maybe they're hallucinating when they finally stumble upon a strange little village, devoid of people but filled with stone figures. Maka shakes their head though, and mumbles to him,

"I can feel people here. They just don't trust us. I don't blame them."

He doesn't either. They must appear so strange to the others, silver and gold, emerald and scarlet, calloused hands and painted toes, a scythe strapped to their broad back. They are the unknown, they are an enemy.

Hell, with his teeth, maybe they're even a nightmare to these people.

They don't stop to ask for directions.

The village is fairly small, and when Maka pushes their legs to move a bit faster as they see the exit of the town, he's glad for it. He wants to stop, he wants all of this to stop, he's so tired, but Maka won't let them rest yet, she's determined to find - If not to find Kid's place, then to at least find a secluded place to sleep. The shadows shift and dance, graceful and cunning and vicious, touching at their toes and tugging at their hair. He feels the fear shuddering in Maka.

Or maybe it's within him, and he's the one dragging them down into the dark.

It seems far more likely.

Her defiance against the worst of the world is what pushes their feet forward, onward and upward until they are standing at the top of a grassy hill, and then, there is…

Light.

So much light.

There's a whole forest of them, the Soul Trees from before, the night lit by the sorrow of the innocents, by their sacrifice, by their end. Everything in the valley is illuminated in violet and blue, and Soul feels like there was a point in his life where he might have become part of that light, like a reversed supernova, starting out as dark matter and exploding into stars. It would be a good way to go, to light the way for the rest of the others strong enough to continue.

But it's still sad.

Maka brings them to the edge, teetering precariously on those blood red toenails, raising their arms at their sides. Her music is chimes and cellos and the sound of the ocean. It is the sunbeams through trees, and it is air whistling through the grass. She is the wind itself, and their lips turn up in a serene smile, whispering into the chill,

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes," he whispers back, though she already knows his answer.

It's the truth.

And she jumps.

Soul has to hold back the shout of surprise and abject terror as they plummet down, down, down, and he realizes he can feel the wind on their face, the air whipping back their hair as they freefall toward the unforgiving earth.

They're jerked upward abruptly though, and Soul sees the pure white and glistening gold feathers, the tie-dye of wax of his childhood seeping from the seams, but sturdy all the same. Her wings, the ones that always betrayed her before, they're his as well now, and he won't let her down. Together, neither the moon, nor sun, nor stars could ever conquer them.

He's never known anything but falling. _They have never known anything but falling._

They soar over the forest and he can feel tears prickle at their eyes. She whispers, yet he can still find her voice, "I can hear them."

So can he.

They land deep inside the forest, walk a bit further, and Soul vehemently ignores the way he can feel the moss between their toes. They come across one of the largest trees, the most harmonious, and they lay down, slowly falling out of resonance, curling into an embrace. Soul rests his head on her shoulder, and she flops an arm over his waist. He feels silly, seeking comfort in her arms rather than being her comfort, but at this point, it all becomes irrelevant. He stares up at the stars that he can spot between the canopy of trees, and one shoots across the sky.

Maka runs her fingers through his hair languidly, and he hates to break the silence, but he wants to know.

"You saw it, right?"

"Mm? The meteor?"

"Yeah, meteor, shooting star, whatever."

"Yeah, I saw it." Her fingers are gentle and insistent, as if she thinks if she keeps it up, she'll be able to lull him to sleep before he can ask anything more. He manages to remain awake though, and asks,

"What'd you wish for?"

Her fingers stop their motions, simply resting in his hair, and she's silent for a while, so long that he thinks maybe _she's _fallen asleep. Then she takes a deep, purposeful breath and reveals her truth.

"I wished for a lot of things. Most of em I'm sure won't ever come true, but that's not the point of a wish, really, is it?"

"No, I guess not."

"Mm. I- ah, wished for my parents to never have had a reason to split. Wished that I could give the other people around here hugs, because god knows they need it. I wished…"

He leans upward again, careful not to jostle her fingers from his hair, just moving enough to look up at her. "What?" he asks, and she glances down at him before pulling him more tightly to her.

"I wished we had met under better circumstances. I wished I was strong enough to get us both home, and wished I was strong enough to make you really understand that you've far better than you give yourself credit for."

He lets the quiet hum of music envelope them for a moment, before attemmpting to lighten the mood.

"Damn, you're gloomy. You just set yourself up for disappointment, don'tcha?" He pokes her side and she flicks his forehead, both of them chuckling dryly.

"It's the optimist in me, it just won't die. Hey, what'd you wish for then, huh? 'World peace'?"

He snorts, and then flushes, because he knows exactly what he wished for but it's embarrassing and lame and so so so childish, so he mumbles, "Oh, I - hah - uhhmm-"

She cuts him off. "What, superstitious?"

_No, just an idiot._

"Aha, no I just. No one has ever asked me."

And it's true, he's not very used to people asking him for his thoughts, for his perspective, the things that make him tick.

"Well," she yawns, settling down into the grass a little deeper and pulling him with her," you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. Just curious."

It's almost entirely silent for a moment, and when he hears her breathing finally even out and her music lull, he whispers his wish into her skin.

"I wished that you'd get the things you wished for."

He seals it with a chaste kiss to her shoulder, feeling just a little creepy for it, before snuggling back into her side. He slips into slumber to the sounds of all the lost souls crooning their quiet lullaby. Maybe they're like guardian angels.

Maybe tonight, he and Maka will be okay.


	6. Part 6

Note: Well, this is it guys, the final part. I hope you've enjoyed the story. I'd like to add a special warning in here, as Giriko makes an appearance. Watch out for an omake in the next few months, I really enjoyed this universe and want to play around with it a bit more.

* * *

><p>In his dreams, there are voices. So many voices that he's never heard. And music. So chaotic that it makes him want to crawl under a rock.<p>

But there's no rocks here. He is nowhere. He is nothing but a part of a whole, a whole that is screaming and sobbing unintelligible things, but he catches one so loud, so desperate, telling him to wake up, wake up, **wake up, **_**now.**_

He jerks awake, and Maka isn't beside him.

She is shrieking, and someone is laughing, and he is lost, lost, lost.

She screams for him and he is scrambling, desperate, floating in space, and it seems all the souls' light has gone out, like they're cowering away from whatever has occurred, like if they don't see it, then it never happened.

"Ohhhh you're a feisty little cunt aren't you? This Soul your fuck buddy? _Do they like to watch?"_

Soul tries to keep a clear mind, tries to be objective, because he's never been good with emotions, he always either swallowed them down or rejected them altogether, but he can't, he can't think straight and he's blinded by the rage, the hatred, the _need to find her._

So he plays. In his mind, _in that place, _the place that he was brought to in that room in Kid's mansion, that place deep within his soul where he hides the things of which he is most proud and most ashamed, he plays as hard as he can, begs with the notes to the souls in the trees to guide him, because he cannot, _will not fail her._

He hammers at the keys, ignoring the way the shadows creep in closer, tangle in his toes and caress his fingers, pleading in the only way he knows how. _Please, she is so important and I can't lose her._

Then a soul flickers. And another. Then fifty.

He sees the one who has Maka, the greasy looking man with metal in his face, large hands wrapped around her arms and knee pressed between her legs. When he leans in his face close enough, Maka bites down on his nose, _hard. _He growls, grip tightening. "I like a girl with a little fire in her, wanna show me what else you got baby?" he says, and Soul wants him dead. Maka's scythe is tossed to the ground off to the side, and the words slither out of this guy's mouth poisonously,

"You wanna tell me where you found my scythe, little girl? Or am I gonna have to fuck you with it first?"

Soul howls, enraged, and leaps, clambering up onto this guy's back and wrapping an arm around his throat in a choke hold. He hopes that the movies actually do it right, because otherwise he's fucked.

Unfortunately, the movies don't portray it accurately, and he's hurled into the ground, a booted foot placed squarely on his chest. The man grins, teeth shiny and white and _vicious,_ and Soul's blood goes cold.

_Like a mirror, isn't it?_

"Well hey there, twerp, this one your girl? She sure is a hot piece of ass, ain't she? Bet she hasn't given it up to you yet, huh? If you want, I'll hold her down for you once I'm done with-"

Soul's fingers brush metal and he evaporates, into the scythe, and when the filth tries to grab his handle, he sears the man's flesh, feels the skin peel off and stick to his staff, the yowl of pain and anger rattling his brain. He's disoriented and fearful and _where the fuck is Maka._

Then her hands wrap around him, her music swelling in pride, indignant and gorgeous and pure, and she growls out, "You are a tormenter and a terror, and you have no place in this world. Your soul is _**mine.**_"

She lifts Soul high above her, arcing down in a vicious hack that ought to have sliced that miserable bastard in half, but his figure turns to ash before them the moment the blade makes contact, no soul left behind. Maybe there was no real soul left. Maybe they defeated him.

Then four more just like him sprout up around them, cackling wildly, manic.

"Aaahahaha ohhhh god, you thought you could just waltz into my fucking town with my fucking weapon and get away with it? You thought I'd be that easy?! I **made **half this world with my own hands, and _I can break it just as easy you little whore."_

All of his golems lunge inward, like a little army of his own personal puppets, and Maka hacks at them wildly, her movements gracefully chaotic, a masterpiece. But each golem just crackles into black dust the moment she makes contact, sprouting up again only moments after she slays them.

The dirt at her feet turns to clay hands and latches onto her ankles, tearing a scream of panic from her. Soul can feel the overwhelming fear; she's a caged animal, ready to lash out and kill, kill, kill, just to get out of this godforsaken place. He can feel the way her soul warps, from angelic to malignant in a nanosecond, and it's scary, all of this is so fucking scary.

He can feel her discomfort through the handle of the scythe, the way her palms heat and her fingers clench desperately.

The real one is leaning against a darkened Soul Tree, casually picking his teeth, eyes bored as he watches their futile effort, and Soul feels something scalding within himself, rising up into his chest cavity, filling his lungs with the wish to _end this creature._

He's not afraid. He refuses to be afraid.

"Maka."

He allows his soul to flow freely, openly with hers, takes her rage and adds to it, sending it back to her once more. _They refuse to be beaten._

Her grip tightens, and her jaw sets.

"Right."

She musters all the strength she possesses and tears her ankle from the grasp of the hands, stomping them back into submission, spiraling herself around in the place of their remains. She is faster than the 'Enchanter' can enchant, getting a running start and shoving the bottom of Soul's scythe shaft into the dirt. She flings herself toward the man with a battle cry so fierce, Soul's blade running through him as Maka's toes touch down to the ground.

A vibrant, red soul is all that is left behind in the wake of her strike. She reaches out to take it, but just before her fingers brush across it, Soul stops her.

"Wait. Watch."

It vibrates and pulsates and wriggles around, like a flaming hornet's nest, and then it just…

Dies. Dissipates into the night and is consumed by the souls of the tree he had leaned against. Soul can hear their chatter, their cries of victory, and he knows they've done this realm a favour.

He's so glad.

But the fact that the soul is gone does not erase the effects of its existence. Maka holsters the scythe in the sling Kilik gave her, and Soul shifts out of the blade, letting out a little whoop of elation when his toes touch down. But when he turns to Maka, the victory in his blood freezes over, turned to solid dread.

"Maka?"

She is white noise.

"Maka!"

She is **chaos.**

"MAKA."

She is _lost._

Her eyes are wide and empty, frighteningly blank, cold, and he hesitantly reaches out a hand to place on her shoulder, but the moment it makes contact, his skin sears and melts, pulling his presence into hers abruptly and painfully.

And he sees…

No.

He _feels_ why she was so disconnected. Why she detached from him in such a way.

He feels now what she didn't want him to feel.

Too many hands grasp at them, pinching and squeezing and groping in places that should never be _violated _in such a way. He can feel the way their throat closes up in fear and disgust.

He feels disgusting and angry and confused, he feels a scream mounting in their throat but making no sound, feels the grime on their skin and the confusion and guilt in their heart and he wants it to stop, please god make it stop.

It's then that he hears a clear thought from her for the first time, echoing through their consciousness and setting his nerves aflame.

**Stop.**

The grasp on them is clammy and filthy, sticking to their skin, and he latches onto her voice desperately to chase away the feeling of absolute revulsion.

He hears it again, louder, stronger.

_**Stop.**_

The hands are more demanding, more distressing, tugging at limbs and pulling at hair, and this time, he screams it with her, out loud, their voices harmonizing gloriously for one of the most important words in their vocabulary.

"_**STOP!"**_

It blasts away all the filth and rage and terror, obliterates the hands that had tormented them so mercilessly for what seemed like _years,_ and Soul feels so relieved for a moment, but it doesn't last long. Because he realizes then that this is something that Maka has had to deal with before, whether it be consciously or unconsciously, and his blood _boils._

He breaks off the resonance immediately, stomach lurching uncomfortably and thoughts scattered by the jarring, and he swears he would puke if he could, but he can't, so he tries to swallow down the horrendous flood of emotions that strike him, over and over and over, unrelenting and unforgiving.

He hears Maka gasping for breath that does her no good, can practically _feel _the way she vibrates in her sullied skin with fear and aggression, and he's not sure he can look her in the eye right now. Not after that. He's not sure he'll ever be able to touch her again without fear, fear of making her feel the way they both just had, feel like evaporating into the air just to be relieved of the possibility of ever being touched in any way, ever again.

He tucks his knees to his chest, face buried in his kneecaps as he tugs uselessly at his hair and chokes down the scream in his throat. How can she possibly deal with that, being tormented in such a way? How could anybody? He feels like a black hole has been punched through his chest, sucking away all that makes him who he is from the inside out and leaving nothing behind to ever signify that he had existed at all. He thought he understood what degradation felt like, but he hadn't.

Not like this.

"Soul."

If he had just stayed in his weapon form, she could have sliced all those hands away.

"Soul?"

If he had done what he was supposed to, she could have defeated those things as quickly as they had come.

"Hey, look at me."

He shifts his head to stare at her through his mess of hair, torn apart by the way her eyes glitter and her jaw clenches. When he speaks, he hardly even recognizes his own voice.

"W-was that… that didn't… who-"

"It was just some asshole in my school. I broke his nose and outed him to the entire school as the scumbag he is, I just… It was fucked up. I don't know why I never got past it, I mean he got expelled and all I just… I know he's not the only one."

He's scared by how much he wishes he could have broken that boy to pieces before her, laid the shards of that atrocious excuse of a human being at her feet for her to do with as she would. And yet, he knows he is justified, wishes she had done more than broken his nose and gotten him expelled, but feels why she couldn't.

It's a paralytic kind of fear.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry, and I know that doesn't mean anything or change anything but god I just have to- I just- that was fucking awful and I'm sorry."

He tucks his face back into his knees, and they're both silent for a long time. He can't stop shaking, it plays over and over, he can still feel those greedy, uncaring hands and he's _sick._

Maka stands from where she had squatted next to him, and when he chances a glance up at her, she is stoney-faced, eyes unfocused, her hand outstretched for his to help him to his feet.

She takes a deep breath through her nose and tells him, her face unsettlingly neutral,

"We need to get a move on. The others are probably going to get worried soon."

"Maka-"

"It's fine. Really. Come on, let's go, alright? I just want to rest."

He stares at her hand for a moment, glances at her drained tired expression, then back to her hands, then down at his own, noting the crescent indentations in his palms, and with a low growl he fists them once more and stands without her assistance. She huffs, but makes no further comments.

They wait again for Patti's pathway to appear, to lead them 'home'.

And just like before, it never comes.

Once again they find themselves wandering, but this time they don't choose to resonate, the foot of space between them a gaping chasm of fear and hurt and longing. It's harder to hear her music this way, and he hates it, but he won't get any closer. Only close enough to protect her if it comes to it.

The Soul Trees are at least helpful, attempting to lead them out of the place where such pain has been harboured, but it's so vast, and they could fly, but then they would have to resonate, and he isn't prepared for that, doesn't know if he'll ever be prepared for it again. They end up having to stop beneath another tree, but this time they don't curl up together.

"I'll keep watch," he tells her, voice so flat it makes him cringe internally. "You should get some rest. I'll let you know if Patti comes through for us any time soon."

She makes no argument like he thought she might, just nods, lips tight, and leans back against the tree, curling around herself protectively in a way that makes him wistful and heartbroken and ashamed. He sits a few feet away, with the scythe slung over his own back (for the purpose of faster bonding), and listens to all the souls murmuring in the wind. A breeze blows past him, shifting his hair, and he knows they're _running _out of time at the _worst _possible time.

He needs to get her out of here.

He's a little relieved by the souls speaking to him. It would have made him feel insane at one point, but now he just wants to hear their stories. When he filters out the chatter, he realizes they're just lonely. Not alone.

But very lonely.

He knows the feeling well. It's like talking to himself, but he isn't.

One soul tells him about having a dream of a black dragon that swallowed them up whole, and she awoke here. She mentioned something about how she was the one to lead Liz back to her 'family' when she got separated from Kid and Patti.

"That was back when they were real green, you know? They didn't know what they were doing. Maybe they still kinda don't. This place was a lot worse before they got here though. So much worse. If you meet Lizzie, tell her Kayla says hey, will you?"

There's a storm brewing not far off, filled with electricity and smoke, and he knows that once Maka awakens, that's where they'll have to go.

"Yeah," he mumbles," I promise I will."

"Hey, hey stay awake! You don't wanna fall asleep arou-"

His consciousness left him abruptly. He dreams of unwelcome hands and sharp teeth and exploding souls.

* * *

><p>He is awakened by hissing, and he thinks that it's Maka at first, which would be somewhat amusing, but she is tugging frantically at his arm, and <em>shit, <em>he fell asleep, he shouldn't have fallen asleep!

A childlike voice, frantic and quivering, says, "You shouldn't be here."

When he looks up, he sees Crona, the one who had been abandoned out in this realm, the one who brought them their nightmares, the one who fell to the allure of spreading their pain instead of swallowing it down and handling it themselves. The one who reminds Soul too much of himself, in a another life, a life where he wasn't as privileged, wasn't as blessed.

They repeat themselves, with those damned hissing snakes winding higher and higher up their legs, their hospital gown stained with old, stale blood. "You _shouldn't be here."_

Their voice is a tiny hoarse cry, and then there's a shift, their eyes fading from navy blue to pale grey, pupils almost gone. Soul realizes that the hissing has stopped. "Oh hoho, you should have listened, _why didn't you listen?"_

Crona has a grin twisting their lips and tears in their eyes. They grit through their teeth, voice cracking with emotion, "Why does no one ever listen?"

Soul notices then, at the worst moment, that there is a nightmarish blade in Crona's hand, the tip of it tucked messily into the dirt. No one wields a weapon without the intention of using it. He can feel their intention, the intention to harm, to weaken, to _end, _because he felt it himself not so long ago. Maka is shivering, and begging, _please Crona, what do you need? How can we help?_

It all falls upon deaf ears.

But there's something beneath that vicious intent in Crona's soul, something just beyond Soul's grasp, and before he can even bother to do so, that blade is poised to kill, held high, just as Maka had lifted him up.

But Crona isn't aiming for him.

_No._

For whatever reason, that blade is for _Maka. _Maybe because ending her ends hope, ends courage, ends all those things Soul had once been so scared of, the things he's always run from. Ending Maka is ending truth, and beauty, and love.

_He can't let that happen._

Crona sobs, their grin melting and warping into a sorrowful grimace. They say, "This wasn't what I wanted," and then their pupils are turned to slits, their blade swiping through the air with a cartoonishly loud whistle. Soul shoves Maka behind him, and she screams.

It's strange, how everything slows down; he can see the souls' light refracting off Crona's tears as they fall, the glint on their ebony blade, and the chaotic clashing of _three_ different melodies coming from them. He can't believe he never noticed them before, because it seems so obvious now, so apparent.

One is quiet, mournful, apologetic, and so deeply frightened.

Then another, though stronger, is disgusted and filled with the most intense guilt.

Only one of three, the strongest, _loudest, _is pulsing with malice, greed, curiosity and amusement. He doesn't know what to think of it, doesn't even have the time to think anything at all before all he knows is _pain. _That old seam in his chest from his nightmares has been torn wide open, and he chokes on the terrors leaking from it.

The last thing he hears is Maka's shrill cry of his name, then her sobbing it, over and over, telling him to _wake up, wake up, __**wake up, **_and wasn't that the whole point of their journey?

To wake up?

He feels her hot tears dripping onto his neck, and he smiles, just a little, at the warmth of her, even at a time like this.

"Get out of- here," her hands grab at him, trying so hard to pull his seams back together, replace what he's lost, but he grabs her hands with his, "I'm okay a-as long as you are." He wishes she would leave him, she's given him enough, more than enough, more than he could ever deserve, and he could fade out of existence happily now, knowing that she'd be safe.

He blinks up at her blearily, wondering where those three melodies went, glad that they're gone, because all he can hear is Maka now. The sorrow sounds like a lullaby, for whatever reason.

But he wants to sleep, needs to sleep now. She'll be safe.

So he sleeps.

* * *

><p>Something reeks of alcohol and hairspray, and he can't really see, but what he does gather is mainly just blobs of colour, meaningless. Everything is gaudy purple and pinks, and if this is what comes After, needless to say, he's a little unimpressed.<p>

He's far more disappointed when things fade into black once again though.

* * *

><p>He is awakened a long while later by a stinging ache in his chest, stretched all the way across him, nestled deep in his skin, but his lungs are free of ink and somehow he feels <em>right. <em>He did something he was supposed to do, meant to do, and it's peaceful.

So peaceful.

Until his mind is assaulted with pure, unadulterated thoughts from Maka, who seemingly hasn't left his side once since this began.

_She can't understand why he could bleed in such a world, bleed ink from his chest and cough it from his lungs, but he had. Bled out life and inspiration and music and love, had bled so much she was afraid he might evaporate into the trees with those other souls she never had a chance to save. He's become too tied to this realm and it's her fault, all of this is her fault somehow -_

He can't believe he ever wished to be able to see inside her head, because realizing she blames herself is agonizing. He knows exactly why this happened, and it has nothing to do with her.

"Maka."

His voice comes out hoarse and underused, and he wonders just how long he's been _gone. _She doesn't respond when he calls for her, merely presses her forehead to his shoulder delicately, going rigid the moment he says, "It's my fault." It becomes obvious very quickly that he's chosen his words incorrectly, and she doesn't shy away from making that clear to him.

She snarls, frightening in her ferocity, getting right in his face and hissing,

"How could you _say that to me._ _I _was the one who let us get caught off guard, _I _should have insisted you rest in the scythe while _I _made sure no one could hurt us! _I_ let them into my blind spot and _you almost died._"

Her words cut him deeper than the swordsman had. He tries again, stifling the wounded tone in his voice. He's been trying to avoid the truth of this matter, but running is tiring, and he needs to be awake now, for her. He needs to be aware and truthful, while he still has it in him. He sighs deeply, trying to ignore the tugging in his chest as he tries to fill his lungs.

"The reason I got hurt- I just… fuck, Maka, it's not your fault. I shouldn't have fallen asleep but I did and I fucked everything up. You're the only thing that makes me want to get out of here. You're the reason I want to go back, so I can get _you _out of here."

The usually constant music that he hears from her soul ceases; she doesn't even breathe, and the silence deafens him.

They remain that way a while, with them simply staring each other down, until she whispers,

"I'm the only reason..?"

The memories of his grandmother's funeral, of his brother's announcement of his departure to France in the fall, of his mother weeping as his father handed her divorce papers, they all flood his mind.

He should try harder. His mother would be beside herself to be left all alone. His father would surely miss him. His brother would never recover.

He wishes that were enough reason for him to want to go back, but he's become cowardly and selfish, jaded by the years of obeying the whims of others. It's like his soul clings to Limbo entirely out of spite. She's what makes him want to be courageous.

And he can't allow her to get dragged down with him. She's strong enough to get back on her own, if that's what it takes, but he won't be the reason for her indefinite separation from her body, from her _life. _He isn't strong enough to deal with the guilt that would come with it.

It's only when a few tears drip from her glassy eyes onto his cheeks - a sensation that is so achingly familiar - that he realizes she's been lurking in his head again. His chest throbs a little when he reaches up to brush away her tears with the pad of his thumb, but he doesn't mind. It reminds him that he's not dead yet, that he can still do something worthwhile, even if it's just helping this incredibly important girl get back home where she belongs.

She offers a watery smile and whispers something that terrifies him.

"You have to find your own reason to go back. You can't borrow mine."

It's true. He knows it's true, Maka doesn't lie. But...

"I'm not _borrowing_, you _are _my reason."

She pushes his hair back from his forehead, her soul flooding him with unfiltered emotion, with what feels like _love, _and he can't breathe, he's so stunned with joy. But she looks into his eyes, a furrow in her brow.

"That's not enough."

He knows, but asks anyway, "And why not?"

She blows out a breath loudly in frustration, reeling back from where she had been leaning over him (a bed in an unfamiliar room that he assumes is one of the many in Kid's place, thank god). She pushes her own bangs back, refraining from tearing at the strands.

"You can't base all the things you do in life off of the whims of other people. Weren't _you_ the one who told _me _that?"

Well shit, she's got him there. But still…

"I… Fuck. I don't know what I want. I mean I want to be wherever you are but- if that's not enough, I don't know what _would _be."

He lets his eyes slip shut, suddenly desperately tired, like the weight of all the world and all their fears has finally crushed him, taking his breath and his energy away.

But then he feels her warm palms cradling his cheeks, and he opens his eyes just in time to see her lovely face as she leans towards his. Impossibly warm lips press against his, so briefly he wonders if he merely imagined it, but the way the air chills his lips when she pulls away, and the blush on her cheeks as well as his own is proof enough.

He doesn't deserve it, her help, her affection, and he tells her as much. He has never deserved it, never been the type of person that _she _deserves to have in _her _life, but she just shakes her head, and kisses him again, on his brow, his cheeks, the corner of his lips.

"You're more than you'll ever know, Soul. Now find a way to make it so I have the time to convince you. I'll help you. And when we get home, I'm taking you out for ice cream."

He laughs a bit, his healing wound tugging a little when he reaches up to cradle the back of her head in his hand, but he quickly forgets his pain when she presses another kiss to his lips, and he smiles into it, tells her, "It's a date."

He won't miss it for anything.

* * *

><p>He's half conscious for the next few days, hearing bits and pieces of conversations that don't make sense, but comfort him all the same. Maka talks to him a lot, tells him all about what happened for them to get stranded. Something about frogs and wolves and snakes? None of it makes much sense to him, his mind hazy with the throbbing in his chest, but her voice is comforting, warm and melodic, enveloping him. She tells him of someone named Blair saving him, and he tells her to say thanks, cause whoever this Blair person is must be pretty cool.<p>

Every once in a while he'll spot a flash of pink hair, and then a weird glowy feeling spreads through his chest, and then he gets all sleepy again and wakes up a few hours later, only to have it all happen again. He kinda misses coherent thoughts a little bit.

The thing that snaps him out of his haze is waking up and not hearing Maka's melody anymore. It had been constant, something he even heard in his dreams, but it's _gone _now and _where the fuck is she?_

His eyes slam open and he propels out of bed, paying no mind to the way his head spins and his chest aches as he runs frantically out of the room, calling Maka's name over and over, trying to find her music, only to come up short. He doesn't recognize anything, and the disorientation only makes the heavy feeling of loss worse. He can't think straight, can't make any sense of anything, because she would never leave, he knows that she would never leave so _what the fuck happened while he slept?_

Harvey is the first person he comes across when he tramples down the stairs of whatever building he's in, and he's immediately electrocuted when he grabs onto Harvey's shirt, trying to shake answers out of him to no avail. The force of it throws him to the floor, but Harv seems only mildly apologetic when he leans over and offers, "Ah, whoops. Unintentional, but it happens."

Soul doesn't even care, he just croaks out, "Where's Maka?" and the nonchalant shrug that's given in reply is infuriating.

"Hey, listen man, I don't know details very often, but I know she's safe, and I know she'll be back soon. If you fuck yourself up getting all crazy over her, she's gonna be pissed."

From where Soul stands (or rather, is sprawled out on creepily pure white tiles) he doesn't have much of a choice but to listen to that logic. But all the same, he's freaked out, and even if Harv doesn't know details, _someone _will. Harv offers a hand to help Soul to his feet, then thinks better of it, sheepishly scratching at the back of his head, a somewhat apologetic look on his face.

Somewhat.

Soul scrabbles to his feet, and mumbles 'sorry' before asking again, a bit more calmly (though only on the outside) about Maka's wellbeing. Harv shrugs again and says, "She's with Pat. I know Maka is alright cause Pat's alright."

He guesses that'll have to be enough for now.

* * *

><p>He spends the majority of the morning pacing around outside the building he had awoken in (which he was informed is a secondary headquarters for when problematic things occur), but when Maka arrives home he <em>hears <em>her before he sees her. She sounds… different. Strange and jittery, but herself nonetheless. He runs to meet her at the mouth of the forest and pulls her into his embrace abruptly, basking in the glory of her arms around him and the unsteady little laugh she lets out at his overly affectionate display. He doesn't even notice that she isn't alone for a solid minute or so, until Patti catcalls them, and a woman coated in glitter, with violet hair in a bikini top and booty shorts starts 'awwwwwww'-ing obnoxiously.

Soul blurts out an ineloquent "Who the fuck is this?", and the woman giggles coyly, "Blair is lady who saved you, kitten, so watch your mouth."

She punctuates her greeting with a little wink, and he cocks an eyebrow, muttering "What the fuck" under his breath to Maka, but she just pats his back and chuckles, whispering, "She grows on you."

He ignores her comment in favour of kissing the top of her head and muttering curses into her hair, telling her of how he awoke, and she was gone, and she's _always _there when he wakes up but she _wasn't_.

He can feel the presences of the others around them start to drift farther away when Maka slips her fingers into his hair, pressing her forehead to his, her eyes wide and apologetic. "I'm sorry," she tells him, and he kisses her nose cautiously before leaning his head into the crook of her neck. She pets the back of his hair soothingly. He was so worried, he had thought the worst. The last time he had woken up without her was…

Was in the forest of soul trees, when the Enchanter had taken her away from him.

When she crushes him tighter into the embrace, he realizes he's shaking. Just a little. Just enough to make him feel like a ridiculous, overly emotional idiot, just enough to make him forget that he cares about looking like an idiot, because she's okay, thank god or whoever or whatever that _she's okay._

But when Maka tells him about where she's been, he's _livid,_ so incredibly angry that she sought out the one who cut him open, _tried to cut her open. _How could she be so _stupid, _so incredibly dense?!

Except…

Except he knows she isn't. Try as he might to avoid them, the memories of those three melodies, echoing in his head, just won't leave him be. He can still see the fear and remorse in Crona's tearful eyes as they cleaved him open, and he tries so hard to be bitter about it, because bitter is familiar and safe. He knows bitterness well, he can deal with it, but this overwhelming empathy is painful. It would be so much easier to just _hatehatehate, _but he _understands _now, or has some approximation of understanding. He can't hate Crona because…

"Crona's mother's soul latched onto theirs, Soul," Maka tells him, and ah, yes, that's it, it all is falling into place now. Back at their first meeting, Crona had said it was a dream that had gotten them here, but it wasn't. Crona really did kill their mother, and apparently said mother hadn't taken too kindly to becoming a victim of matricide. Soul would demonize Crona for the horror they've committed, but he's heard their mother's very soul in its most honest form, heard the filth and greed and all of it. Maybe Crona hadn't been right from an objective standpoint but, well... Soul knows he wouldn't ever wish to trade places with the poor kid. Not for anything.

Maka cradles his face in her hands, her eyes pleading, and he already knows where they're going from here.

"Let's go Reap some unworthy assholes, yeah?" he asks, letting his lips lift into a half smile. She nods solemnly, eyes determined. Crona might not deserve her help, but hell, neither does he.

Maybe with this, he can do something to earn it.

* * *

><p>They make their best attempt at slipping away unnoticed, Soul taking temporary solace in the scythe, but, to his surprise, Tsubaki ambushes them not far past the mouth of the forest, morphing out of the shadows and solidifying directly in their path. They aren't even given a moment for awe before Tsubaki hisses at them, "Just what the <em>hell <em>do you two think you're doing?! You should be resting, or better yet, _trying to get home! _"

He's stunned silent, grown used to Maka's occasional outbursts, but not at all equipped to deal with Tsubaki's wrath. She huffs, grabs the staff of his scythe slung over Maka's back, and the shock of her wavelength rips him from the weapon. "Don't hide like that, it's unbecoming. Honestly, I wouldn't expect it from the boy who threw himself in front of a giant sword."

Maka thankfully steps in, trying to calm Tsubaki's ire with words that don't really strike Soul as calming at all.

"Listen Tsubaki, I have to do this. Crona isn't the one who's choosing to do us harm."

"Maka… Do you not realize that they've been tormenting others all around this realm with nightmares? Their skill is harnessing the things that scare us most and using those things against us. How could it be possible that they aren't the one choosing to cause everyone pain? Their _skill _is _causing others pain."_

Maka shakes her head vigorously, and Soul places his fingertips on the middle of her back, trying to give her any comfort he can. Maka stands tall, her head held high, and looks Tsubaki directly in the eyes.

"I need for you to trust me, okay? I can read it in their soul, and Soul saw it too. They don't need to be reaped, they need to be _rescued. _Please believe me. _Please."_

Soul can sense the uneasiness in Tsubaki's music. And he realizes…

She's the only person who's story he has never heard.

It slips through his lips, unbidden and blunt, "How did you end up here?"

The shock of the question makes her music skip and stutter, before resuming more quietly, somber and slow.

"By trusting someone I shouldn't have trusted," she tells them, her gaze distant. She shakes the remembrance of whatever it was out of her brain. "Listen, I realize that you both are intelligent and capable, and I do trust your judgement, but please, _please _be cautious. I want you both to get home safely. Don't jeopardize that if you think even for a moment that this journey you're taking will be all for naught."

Soul is glad for her voice of reason. For the perspective, and the concern. He's concerned, too.

But this is something that Maka has to do, and that he has to help her with. They won't progress any further if this is left ignored.

Maka takes one of Tsubaki's hands, cringing at the pain of the contrasting wavelengths, but holding fast all the same. Tsubaki does not pull away, though her jaw clenches tightly.

Something occurs between the two of them that Soul can't quite grasp, but all he knows is that Tsubaki's entire demeanor has changed. He wonders if maybe Maka has found a way to give others truth through mere touch alone, words rendered useless. It wouldn't surprise him. Overachiever.

Tsubaki finally pulls her hand away, the look of understanding on her face quite clear.

"Do what you have to do. Keep each other safe." She stares Soul down, and he can hear her music telling him all he needs to know. She is placing her faith in him and Maka, and though he doesn't know Tsubaki well, he can tell that it is an honor to have her faith bestowed upon them.

Tsubaki melts back into the shadows.

Soul looks at Maka, takes her hand in his and initiates resonance, their souls melding.

He's through with letting people down.

* * *

><p>As they venture deeper into the forest, Soul finds himself getting more and more unsettled by the silence within them. She doesn't ask him any direct questions, or ever really communicate with him. They share a mind now, but it's like she's off huddled in her own corner of it, replaying things over and over. He sees little flashes of the Enchanter, but from her perspective, feels the nails grip into his arms, and the humid breath slither across his neck. He sees Crona's blade arcing down, sees himself bleeding out and Maka's hands trying to put him back together.<p>

He sees Crona sobbing at Maka's feet, telling her all about their mother, and he decides that it's time for a little distraction.

_Hey Maka, what's your favourite colour?_

_...you're kidding right now, right?_

_No, I wanna know. I mean I know you but I don't know stuff like this. We share a soul and everything but it doesn't mean we can just totally forego normal dating behavior._

_Oh so we're dating?_

If he didn't feel the affection and mirth within her, he might've run right then.

_Hey, you're the one who kissed me okay. And offered me ice cream. And I'm totally holding you to it, I hope you know._

_Glad to hear it._

_Mm. But seriously, favourite colour?_

_You're ridiculous. Um. Red, I guess?_

_You guess or you know?_

_God you sound like my 8th grade math teacher, don't do that. It's red. What about you?_

_Can't tell you, that's top secret information miss…_

_Albarn?_

_Yeah, that. I totally knew that. Strong-arm-Albarn, right._

_God you're a dork if given the chance. We're about to march into god knows what and you're playing twenty questions._

_At least it's not the sexual version like most dudes try to play. How did that even become a thing anyway? Like I have seen dudes go from 'what kind of music do you like' to 'are you wearing panties' in like .05 seconds and it's gross._

_We're getting way off topic here. What's your last name?_

_What, can't make any questions up on your own? Or are you stumped because you already know what my panties look like? All the mystery is gone, I'm so ashamed._

_Oh shut up, I have to find you somehow once we get back._

_Just look for the albino dude running around in his heart boxers calling your name, shouldn't be too hard to spot to be honest._

_Soul, I'm serious._

_Nono, I know. You will, don't worry about it. I know you'll find me. And if you don't find me, I'll find you._

_You're the dude, shouldn't you be the one making the effort first?_

_Gender stereotyping right now? Really? And here I was thinking you were all open minded._

It feels so good, the levity, the joking and the warmth in their chest. It soothes his worry, soothes his wound. They will succeed, however they have to do so.

As they stumble ever deeper though, their conversation dies down, both of them a bit offput by the trees riddled with disease and strangulated by black, thorny vines. The vines bear no fruit nor bloom, barren as the trees they've drained of life. The air doesn't move here, sick with the smell of rot and bad omens, and Soul suggests that he shift into the scythe so she has something for protection, but she refuses to let go of their resonance. In a way, he's sort of thankful. At least he has her soul for comfort as they wander into the snake pit. He'll do whatever is needed to make sure she stays safe.

Maka halts their footsteps abruptly, turning to their left, always, _always_ left, and he sees a beach of ash, waves of ink lapping at its shore. This can't be the place. Surely it's a joke.

It isn't a joke, though; they had their time for jokes before. He guesses he'll just have to hold onto that until they get through this. It's enough.

It will be enough.

Maka opens their lips, calling out to Crona, and he's not sure why he's so surprised when Crona actually appears, but he is, almost tumbling backward and taking Maka with him, if not for Crona catching them first.

Crona's grip doesn't burn.

They let go though, and Maka takes this opportunity to gently cut the resonance between herself and Soul. He catches Crona staring at his chest and suddenly feels very self conscious, until he realizes what has caught Crona's attention there.

Soul looks down at himself for the first time since the incident, surprised at the angry, purplish scar running from his left collarbone to his right hip. He traces his fingers curiously along the scar tissue that's directly over where his heart should be , finding that it aches more deeply than before. He sees the look of guilt in Crona's eyes, drops his hand, and shrugs.

"It wasn't your fault. We know that."

Crona looks like they're about to start sobbing, which he is absolutely positive he won't be able to deal with, but thankfully, Maka steps in.

"Hey, hey it's okay, alright? We can help."

A deep, masculine voice with a thick Bronx accent calls out, "That fuckin' so?"

Crona cringes and mutters, "Oh dear god, no," then calls back behind themselves, "Rocco, they're friends! You don't have to be so rude…"

"I ain't bein' rude. I'm curious, so calm the fuck down. Christ, if only wine was a thing round this shithole, maybe you wouldn't be so fuckin' jittery all the time."

Soul's spine goes stiff at the intrusion. He doesn't recognize this voice at all.

But as they come closer, he finds the melody of their soul familiar, and it makes sense.

"You were in the sword, weren't you?"

Rocco replies gruffly, "Yeah, what of it? Not like we had any choice in the matter, so get over it."

Soul raises his hands in surrender. "Hey dude, I'm over and past it. We're good."

"Good."

Rocco emerges from the shadows, and Soul _really _wishes that Maka had given him at least a little warning, 'cause maybe it makes him a hypocrite given his own appearance, but facial abnormalities tend to throw him off for a second or two, and he'd rather not come across as the gigantic asshole he is when directly in the middle of the 'enemy's territory'. Rocco has two gashes, criss crossing at the exact point above the bridge of his nose and spreading across the rest of his face. Soul's not sure he can stomach whatever this guy's story is, but at least he doesn't seem the sharing type.

"Take a goddamn picture kid, it'll last longer. Fuckin' hell I swear, ain't nobody got any manners these days. Whatever, don't matter anyways. You gonna help us take down that cunty witch of a mother Crona's got, or what?"

Soul chokes on the laughter he's trying so hard to keep down, covering it as a groan of pain when Maka grinds a heel into his toes. Crona looks mortified, but Rocco looks quite pleased with himself. It's an interesting dynamic, and because of the way Maka can perceive them, Soul can tell that Crona and Rocco can achieve resonance. An unlikely pair for certain, but then again, he can't really talk. He and Maka are an odd couple, too.

"Ogod, Roc, be careful! What if she hears you?"

"This coming from the kid who jammed a butter knife in her carotid artery… sheesh."

Soul interrupts cautiously. "Hey, um, guys? I never really got filled in on the plan here so ah- any enlightenment would be helpful. Seriously. Any at all."

Rocco snorts derisively, "plan? You think any of us twits got us a real plan? Nah, we just know we gotta end Maddie."

"Maddie..?"

"Crona's cunty witch of an incubator."

"Oh."

"Yeah. She ain't someone you wanna fuck with. But she's gonna tear this place to bits and everyone in it if we don't end this slippery bitch so-"

"Rocco, she's still my mother-"

"Yeah yeah, Madam Matricide, whatever you say."

"I told you to stop calling me that!"

Soul silently wonders if Crona has more of a problem with the 'Madam' in the title, or the jab at them about matricide, but he quickly reminds himself that it doesn't matter; what matters is the fact that they're hurt by the title. He'd like to say something kind, something constructive, but as usual, he's coming up short. Luckily Maka is perceptive as always, and starts steering the conversation in a less offensive, more productive direction.

"Hey, listen, Maddie's thing is taking our worst fears and turning them against us, right?"

Crona nods, "Uh huh, I think she learned that from my aunt. S-she isn't very nice either. Y-you don't want to let her in your head, she does bad things with your thoughts. B-but she's not the problem right now. You two, you're weaker when you're separated. _Don't_ get separated. My mother s-she's… I t-think you both know how she can gain control."

Oh. The snakes that took the wolf-man away from them.

The snakes that bit Crona, made Crona slice Soul open. But he isn't afraid. He can't afford to be afraid. He puts on a brave face and huffs, "That's all she is? Snakes?"

Crona's expression goes cold.

"Snakes. Plural. More than one snake. A-and no, that's not all she is."

Soul is starting to get a little tired of the cryptic bullshit, if he's honest.

"Then what the fuck else is she?!"

And now he hears it, that _other _melody, the one that brought the blade down. Then a voice, smooth as silk, sensually poisonous.

"Oh my dear, darling boy. Not to be cliche or anything, but I daresay that _I'm your worst nightmare. _Crona, be a dear, won't you? Prepare to end this."

_Shit._

But Crona is steadfast in their resolve, their voice shaky but their eyes clear.

"No. I won't be your pawn anymore. I'm strong enough without you."

Madeline doesn't miss a beat, conjures something from the shadows that latches onto Crona and Rocco, pulling them off deeper into the forest. Maka lurches forward, but Soul stops her, speaking words he's not sure he believes. "Maka, they're okay, alright? They're together, just like we've been together through all of this, and they'll be fine."

Her soul wriggles with panic and guilt, but she agrees. Everything will be fine. He'll make it so.

Madeline's voice slips through the air, taunting and cruel, and he feels it slip inside his head, rattling around invasively.

"Is that so? Your outward optimism is simply outstanding, Soul, but good grief, you have some wildly disturbing things in that little noggin of yours, even for me. _I like it, do tell me more about how sickeningly envious you are of anyone who has a father to hug, anyone who doesn't feel like the air they breathe is wasted."_

It doesn't feel the way it does what Maka takes a look inside, no. Maka falls into place like a jigsaw piece. This woman slithers into his mind and poisons everything she touches. She's rotting him from the inside out in the worst possible way; using preexisting problems that he's internalized and ignored for so long, showing him all of them all at once and making them claw their way from the inside of his chest, the inside of his soul.

But he has something now that he never had before.

He has Maka's confidence in him.

And his confidence within himself.

Within the absolute best and worst of him.

In the depths of his mind, he strolls casually into the room with his piano, ignoring the acid-eaten curtains and the cracked tiles, sitting down at the bench. He strokes the fallboard reverently, speaking to Maddie distractedly, casually, never letting his tone belie the malice he holds for her in his heart.

"I know you," he says as Maka's hands press upon his shoulders, and he's glad she found him here, because he needs the moral support, "you're that fucked up sociopath in all those movies everyone is so scared of, the one that throws their kid in a pool to teach them how to swim. Did you kill small animals as a child? My therapist told me about people like you."

Maka's palm rests in between his shoulder blades, keeping him steadfast when Maddie retorts.

"Ohhhh, Ariana loves to play games, doesn't she? She's been perfecting the art ever since we were little girls. If you think you can use my own sister's tactics against me, _you're dead wrong, darling."_

He can admit, he really didn't fucking see that one coming.

Maddie continues on, her serpentine form dissipating into smoke and rearranging itself in the shape of a woman with reptilian golden eyes and a forked tongue that seems poised to destroy. He words slither from her lips so casually as she glides toward where Soul and Maka stand, petrified. "My sister did enjoy talking about her clientele quite a bit, you know. Told me they were a pitiful lot, a whole mess of mommy issues and daddy issues and tendencies towards dissociation. But she had a few favourites," she hisses with a poisonous smile, her pupils fattening as she stalks closer, "I'll still won't ever understand _how _she acquired a license to practice, but, well, I _am _glad that she did. If she hadn't I never would have gotten to know you so well, _Soul._"

No.

Nonononono_**no.**_

He's trapped in the eye of a storm of fire, all the air in his lungs forcefully consumed, fuel fed to the flames that replaced the curtains. He chokes, tastes the ashes as the edges of his newfound confidence begin to burn away. It's the feeling again, that panic that eats away the corners of his vision and knocks him on his ass.

_He has been so sure of himself._

Maddie continues on, slinking up to his side and whispering in his ear, "The girl doesn't love you, you know."

And that's the final straw. Maybe Maka doesn't love him. Maybe once they get out of here, he'll never fucking see her again in his life.

But they _will _get out of this godforsaken place, and this unholy wench isn't going to fucking stop them.

Maddies lips press to Soul's cheek, and he cringes away from her, her mouth clammy and slick with venom of her words. When he turns to shove her away from him though, Maka already has the she-beast's throat in her grasp, her fingerprints searing themselves into Maddie's pale flesh. Soul's mind reels with shock for a moment as he listens to the sizzle of it, but he's pulled back into the reality of the situation when Maddie starts laughing high pitched, rasping chuckles.

She dissipates into the atmosphere, becoming an apparition in the treeline a ways from them, twining herself in the branches and dipping down, staring at them boredly as she hangs upside down. She clicks her tongue thoughtfully, then slips from the branches back to the soil, her footsteps making no sound. Soul sees Crona clench their fists defiantly, Rocco at their back and trying to keep them steady as the shadow creatures do their best to break them down, but he can hear the terror in their melodies, knows that they're too afraid for this. He gets it.

He really does.

But he and Maka are probably going to need an ally very soon, and the kid quivering in their hospital gown, knees knocking so hard that Soul can hear it, well…

Soul isn't sure that'll be enough.

He isn't careful enough, too lost in his worrying about Crona to realize that Maddie's attentions have shifted away from him, focusing on his weakest part.

"Maka. Ohhhhh Maka, Maka, Maka. I've seen you in Crona's head before. My dear child seems to have a bit of a soft spot for you, but I'm sure you're already aware of that. It seems unfair, don't you think? To take advantage of a damaged person's affection for you? It's sick, really. It's what it seems you've been doing to this poor Soul as well, isn't that right? You couldn't make it this far alone, could you Maka. Riding on someone's coattails is unbecoming of such a beautiful young lady. Hm. I would have expected something a little…" she taps her finger to her chin thoughtfully, "_more."_

A snarl tears from Soul's throat, unbidden and unforgiving, tearing up his innards as it tumbles forth like broken glass. He always knew anger is destructive to those who hold it as well as those who it is unleashed upon, but he's never been this angry before, never been so enraged. Maybe he never had anything he cared about enough to have such a strong emotion evoked, but feeling it broil in his veins and prickle at his skin now is too much. He doesn't understand how Maka has tolerated it so long, swallowed it down and only heaved it back up at the worst of times. He can't hold this in, he needs to put it somewhere.

_You know what to do._

_You know where to go._

"Maka. Get ready."

He places a hand on her back, just over her scythe, and melds with it.

Her consciousness snaps together with his so swiftly it almost knocks him on his ass. They've never had a resonance so strong without becoming one entirely, but as she holds him in her hands, he realizes that they never needed that at all.

They needed to completely trust one another with all.

Before, he hadn't even opened the fallboard, hadn't stuck a single key before everything had gone up in smoke and flame, but he's in control now.

_He's in control._

_He has to be._

Their resonance is incredible, both joined in a human form as well as weapon. He can feel the warmed steel of his staff against his palms, and she can feel the cool keys beneath her fingers, feel the dust and soot that cakes on Soul's fingertips and the sweat that runs down his spine.

His demon, his crutch, it drips from the ceiling into the space beside Soul in the bench, and he can feel how Maka grits her teeth, clenches her fists, but he silently tells her that he can do this. There's no need to worry. She has to focus on what's going on up there, so he can take care of what's down here.

He can feel her tight grip on his very soul.

He plays, and the demon speaks, a voice eerily like his own meeting his ears.

"What good do you think this will do, eh? Do you believe if you play for long enough your enemy will just stab themselves in the ears to be rid of the noise, problem solved? You'll be the saviour of allllll the realm, you and your little girlfriend. What a fucking joke. You need my help, boy, don't you? I don't mind."

The melody that Soul plays, the one he's worked on for months now, is overshadowed by minor tones, dissonance, chaos, _destruction. _The demon plays too loudly, a counterpart too strong for the piece that Soul performs, and it takes over the song.

Soul's hands start to sweat.

"C'mon kid, you can do better than that! Play _**louder! **__Make me believe you. _You won't be able to convince anyone with that pitiful conviction, face it! You can't even make _yourself _believe it. Play me something **real**, we're all listening. Don't disappoint us, boy."

The back of Soul's throat tightens and sours the way it does before he vomits, but he swallows it down, instead letting Maka's indignance for him and her pride she holds on his behalf wash over him, flow through him.

He plays on, shouting his frustration at the demon.

"Who the hell are you to tell me anything?!"

It's a poor attempt at pride, and the demon can tell.

"Well, at the moment, it would seem that I'm the better musician, wouldn't it? Can't you feel the way all the souls turn their ears to _me_? Don't you wish they would listen to _you_? _**Don't you have anything worthwhile to say?!**_"

He does.

Soul changes the position of his hands.

"I do have something worthwhile to say," his voice is calm. "This is a song in the key of G," he says, playing what he hears in Maka's soul, "C yourself the fuck out of it."

There's a spike of amusement in Maka's soul as he says it, and he feels his lips twitch upward as he adapts the song to her mirth.

He feels a large palm clap him on the back; the demon, Soul realizes, and the demon chuckles a little.

"See, kid? There you go. You don't need me anymore, just remember that."

And then he's gone, and Maka's music, the music of her resonance with Soul, courses through him. His fingers never slip, his bare foot toeing at the petals in perfect time. The cracks in the tiles of the room seal themselves, the curtains rebuilding from the ashes a vibrant scarlet. He closes his eyes with a blissful grin and sees through Maka's eyes.

The song brought them to the forest of fallen souls, or rather, brought the forest to them. Madeline is caught dumbfounded, and Maka stares in awe as all the souls begin to sing.

They sing to the song that Soul plays, harmonizing and amplifying it through the realm. It shakes the world, and they all converge into one entity, massive and magnificent, and exactly what Soul imagined God might look like.

It bellows at Madeline, whose form seems petrified, a figure of stone in the glow of the souls she once preyed upon. Crona and Rocco emerge from their shadowy prison, shaken but relieved. Crona looks to Soul, a question in their eyes, and he nods.

Crona and Rocco stalk toward the fractured obsidian statue that stands where Madeline had stood, and he hears the statue say only one word.

"Betrayer."

Crona stares mirthlessly.

"No, mother. Only humans can be betrayed."

With a simple flick of their finger, Crona topples that statue.

Madeline crumbles.

Glittering black dust gets caught in the light shed from all the souls of all the realm, shimmering every colour imaginable.

"Maka, I'm coming out now."

"O-oh!"

She holsters the scythe and Soul drifts into existence beside her, taking her hand in his own. They watch as Crona and Rocco bask in the purity of the light, shaking off the shadows and shame from their tired shoulders. They shed everything until they are nothing but light and the echoes of the song, becoming one with the other fallen. The being seems to take a shuddering breath, and with it's final moments it says,

"Thank you."

Then it shatters into billions of fragments, carried into the sky. Soul doesn't understand, but he thinks that maybe they were being thanked for _freedom._

Maka breathes out, "woah' and he can't help the chuckle that escapes him. Woah, indeed.

They stay there a while, watching the colourful dots dancing in their eyes; after images of what they've just witnessed.

Maka laughs a little.

"That line was super corny."

"What line?"

"That line, about the key of G. So corny."

"Pfffft it was not corny!"

"It was so corny, I'm thinking about nicknaming you Kansas. Dide you get that from some B role movie?"

"Ohhhh fuck you, it got the job done, didn't it?"

She grins, placing a kiss on his cheek. A path of bright blue mushrooms shows up, and they blink at it dazedly for a bit before they catch on. As they walk back to their friends, hand in hand, they feel…

Alive.

* * *

><p>"Holyyyyyyyyyyy shit you guys, what'd you do?!"<p>

Patti greets them both with an enormous, bone crushing hug, followed by Blake, who nearly knocks them all over. Soul is so surprised by it that he almost misses important details, until he sees Liz and Kilik, comfortably walking toward them, each holding the hand of a twin. They're all grinning, and that's when it hits him.

Their touch does no harm.

Their wavelengths have harmonized. He listens closely and hears all different variations of the song he played ringing through their souls. They are all counterparts now, pieces of a whole while remaining whole on their own as well.

This was his and Maka's doing..?

Lightheaded, he tries to gather his thoughts coherently, but he feels scattered, and he vaguely registers some gasps in the distance, but it makes no sense. The only thing that he can remember is green eyes and an address, so he clings to the image and shouts out the address, hoping he's done the right thing.

* * *

><p>He starts with a gasp, Maka's name on his lips, only to be met with his brother's relieved face.<p>

"Sweet jesus, little brother, I was about to call a damned ambulance, what the hell was that?!" Wes pulls Soul into a crushing embrace, smoothing down the back of Sou's matted hair. "I was so worried," he says, and Soul is actually happy to be home.

"Wes, language," Soul mocks in a poor, rasping impression of their mother's voice. His brother bops him in the back of the head, but only hugs him tighter.

When Wes finally pulls away, his demeanor hardly passing for composed, he clears his throat. "You should, ah, start getting ready. I think Today will be a good day. On the news they said more children were born this morning at eleven then have been born in the last week. If that isn't a good omen, little brother, I don't know what is."

* * *

><p>The light from the exit sign backstage makes the toes of his too polished shoes shine a strange, sickly red. He tries to think of things that will keep him composed.<p>

Maka.

She wasn't just a dream, he knows that all too well. He can't remember what happened though, only that he shouted out the theatre's address like a total idiot. Stupid. Even if she had heard him, she has no obligation to show up.

He stops thinking when he realizes he feels far less composed now than he had before. Someone whisper-shouts "five minutes 'til curtain!" and Soul remembers that he forgot his sheet music at home, and he knows now from experience that he _can't _play it without guidance.

In other words, he's fucked.

Super fucked.

"Two minutes."

He never thought of a backup plan, didn't think he'd need one. For Christ's sake, he's spent a third of the past year just on this one piece. He was certain that it would at least be mediocre enough for him to get by without making a gigantic ass of himself. Seems he was mistaken.

"Evans, you're on."

_Fuck._

He walks to the front of the stage, into the spotlight, taking the mic and tapping it experimentally, cringing along with the crowd when the device makes an unholy screeching sound. He mutters a little 'sorry' before readjusting

"Right well, now that I established that this thing is working by breaking all our eardrums," the crowd laughs, and he continues on with just a bit more sureness," I ah, suppose I should say something about the piece I'll be playing. So, ah…"

He searches the front row for someone to focus on, someone who looks as helpless as he feels right now. He blinks away the blindness, and what he finds beyond it makes his stomach do a joyful flip and his heart rate skyrocket. Beside his brother in the front row, Maka sits, her eyes alight with curiosity and what he now can recognize as love.

He grins at her, and she smiles back.

He knows what to play.

"You know what, the piece I've been working on? It's kind of shit-" he mouths out 'sorry mom' when the entire audience gasps at his language and the informality of it, his tie tugged loose and his sleeves pushed up, "but anyway, I'm not gonna make you guys suffer through that the way I've been suffering through it for the past four months. I'm gonna take a chance here. So, this is dedicated to a friend I made recently. Thanks for everything."

Maka and Wes are the only ones in all the theatre to cheer, but it's more than enough to give him strength.

He plays what he had for Crona, and Rocco, and all the lost souls. He plays the song of his bond with Maka, plays all of the pain and sorrow, and plays the elation. He plays every note like it's been ingrained into every fibre of his being, ignoring the burn of the stage lights, ignoring the burn in his eyes, in his muscles. He can see the forest of soul trees, see them all reaching toward their freedom as he reaches the crescendo of the song, the way they scattered into the atmosphere, into a new reality where they would find a second chance, find their redemption. He plays from the depths of his soul, tearing the music from his heart and spreading it throughout the theatre, laying his soul bare for this room full of familiar strangers, and when the song ends, after a long moment of silence, the audience erupts in a fit of cheers, and a single, relieved tear drips down the bridge of his nose that he pretends is sweat.

He stands, and the cheers grow louder as he bows, proud, before he strolls over to the front edge of the stage and leaps off, landing right in front of Maka. She gives him no time to catch his breath before pulling him to her, her lips meeting his in a fierce, warm kiss.

When they finally pull up for air, Wes is side-eyeing him so hard, Soul thinks he might actually combust. Wes clears his throat.

"So, _little brother_, I met your new friend. You certainly work fast." Maka chokes on air, and Soul splutters gracelessly, but when he collects himself enough he says,

"Wes, man, you don't know the fuckin' half of it."

* * *

><p>He wasn't exactly expecting Blair to show up, of all people, but some-fucking-how she does, and Soul sees immediately that Wes is a goner. Fitting, he thinks, to have all the people who saved him in one place now. Maka walks him out of the theatre, undoing his tie entirely now and unbuttoning his collar just a bit, remarking on the strange line of freckles that starts at his left shoulder with a little wink that no one but Soul notices.<p>

They walk hand in hand with no real direction, and he's silently admiring her sleek, scarlet minidress and her tightly laced combat boots when she stops him to ask a question that makes his heart squeeze affectionately.

"Sooo, Mister Soul Avery Evans… do you wanna go get some ice cream?"

He kisses the smug grin from her lips, reveling in how _real _she is and always has been.

"Lead the way."

* * *

><p>After they say their temporary farewells to Wes and Blair (both of whom seem entirely too preoccupied with each other to give much of a damn about being ditched), Maka takes Soul to an ice cream vendor on the corner of 42nd Street and Gallows Ave, a place run by an affectionate one eyed woman who Maka claims had once worked a government job, much like Maka's father. It took a while, but Maka says that "Marie decided the government sucked and ice cream makes the world a brighter place", and he can't really argue with that.<p>

He notices that Maka doesn't cringe when she mentions her father, and he's so proud.

She gets a scoop of green tea and a scoop of lychee, and while at first Soul might have figured her for a vanilla kind of girl, he can't say he's all too surprised by her choices now. He orders pistachio, and she insists on paying, saying " A promise is a promise!" before pulling a wrinkled twenty dollar bill from her sock. When he looks at her questioningly, she simply shrugs. "I like to keep my hands free. What, you got something against sock money ice cream?" she teases.

He laughs at the look she gives him, noting the little crinkle in her brow and the way her lips press into a pout and her nose scrunches up, and he has to remind himself that she had asked a question, however rhetorical it may have been. He puts up his hands in surrender, trying not to let his lips pull up into a grin and failing. "Hey, no way in hell I'll turn down ice cream with the coolest chick in the world. Even if you're gross and keep money in your gross socks." He punctuates his words by leaning forward boldly to steal a lick of her ice cream.

She laughs at the face he makes.

"Uhhh, acquired taste?"

Judging from her amused expression, he's making a pretty ridiculous face, but god it tastes so _weird. _It's almost sweet, but then not, and he just can't quite figure it out.

But not bad. Definitely not bad.

It suits her.

"Ah, I think I could get used to it. Totally weird though, you weirdass weirdo."

"Oh, c'mere" she says, rolling her eyes before licking her own cone. He approaches cautiously, melodramatic in his indecision, and she laughs before lacing her free hand into his hair, stretching onto her tiptoes and kissing him, her cool, _sweet_ tongue pressing against his own.

Okay, maybe he didn't give her ice cream enough credit, 'cause he's _positive _it's his new favourite _now._

"Come with me," she says, and he follows her to a place of surprisingly thick vegetation behind the little shop. She pulls apart some wild, hanging vines, and reveals a grassy area with a singular picnic table. There's no way that such a place could exist without a considerable amount of care in their city, but it looks like it _belongs._ A true oasis in their dust bowl they call home. Wildflowers bloom, and he can hear the telltale buzzing of honey bees at work, plundering and pollinating and helping the world continue to turn. A clear blue pond glistens, peppered with lily pads and lotus blooms, dragonflies fluttering through the little sanctuary. It's all so vital, so _alive._

_So much like her._

They carefully tip-toe their way to the table, sitting beside one another, and when she slips off her boots and striped socks, he realizes, with overwhelming affection in his heart, her toe nail polish is bright and scarlet. He thinks of how right it felt to wake up to see her face, how wonderful she feels in his arms and how she has helped him face so much. He thinks of her quick temper and her gentle heart, and he thinks of the fact that he could probably spend the rest of his life beside her, if she were to want that.

But first, some smalltalk is probably in order.

"So ah, how'd you feel when you woke up?"

_Nailed it._

"Like I really, _really _had to pee." He laughs, accidentally inhaling some liquified pistachio cream and hacking once, twice, three times, only regaining his composure to a slight wheeze after she's slapped him hard on the back (which honestly does nothing other than sting, but at least her reaction to him choking is to try to help him not be choking anymore. With a deep, rattling breath, he wipes at his watering eyes as discreetly as possible and asks how she knew it would be such a formal event and not just a lame school talent show.

She pinches one of his cheeks and he nips at her fingers, just barely grazing her digits with his teeth.

"Google just takes all the mystery out of life, don't you think?"

He mock-groans, setting aside his treat to fold his arms on the table and dramatically flow his head into the cradle his crossed arms create. "Ew, gross, you googled my name? I thought you weren't a weirdo nerdbrain, you're lettin' me down." He pokes at her side and pretends she can't see him grinning into his forearms. Her soft chuckles are something he could spend an eternity listening to.

Her hip is flush with his before he knows what's happening, her arm looped around his waist and cheek pressed to his shoulder, and she sighs.

"Well, I guess I should probably ask for your number, huh?" she asks, and he forgets how to breathe for a second, because he's a loser, and he doesn't really know what they are, but he knows what he wishes for them to be.

He turns his face so his lips are only a hair's breadth from her temple, whispering his phone number into her hair, asking with a grin if she needs his social security number and date of birth as well. She turns and kisses him, her mouth insistent upon his, and she whispers that she'd like to see him again, tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after the day after that, and all the days that are sure to come.

He'd like that too.


End file.
